REESE    LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


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Accessions  yVc.*™T?y>...       Shel  No... 


POEMS 


BY 


THOMAS     BUCHANAN    READ 


A  NEW  AND  ENLARGED  EDITION. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 
VOL.    I. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO 

1866. 


Kutered  according  to  Act  of  .Congress,  iu  the  year  1859,  by 

THOMAS     BUCHANAN     11  K  A  I) , 
iu  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Ma&sachusett, 


TO 


JOHN  A,  C.  GEAY,  ESQ., 

AS    AN    EVIDENCE     OF     SINCEKE    REGARD 


ARE     INSCRIBED     BY 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.  I. 


LYRIC    POEMS. 

Page 

MY  HERMITAGE 13 

AN  INVITATION 17 

A  SONG 20 

THE  DESERTED  ROAD 22 

A  BUTTERFLY  IN  THE  CITY 25 

THE  WAY-SIDE  SPRING 27 

A  MAYING 30 

THE  SUMMER  SHOWER 36 

oo 

INEZ < 

SUNLIGHT  ON  THE  THRESHOLD 42 

MIDNIGHT 46 

THE  LIGHT  OF  OUR  HOME 48 

THE  Two  DOVES 52 

SOLEMN  VOICES 55 

SOME  THINGS  LOVE  ME 57 

To  WORDSWORTH 59 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PASSING  THE  ICEBERGS      .        . 60 

CHRISTINE 64 

THE  FAIRER  LAND 79 

ARISE 82 

THE  MAID  OF  LINDEN  LANE 84 

THE  Swiss  STREET-SINGER 90 

A  LEAF  FROM  THE  PAST 92 

ROSALIE 95 

THE  STRANGER  ON  THE  SILL    .......  103 

J^NDYMION 105 

HAZEL  DELL 107 

A  GLIMPSE  OF  LOVE 110 

LINES  TO  A  BLIND  GIRL 112 

ONCE  MORE  INTO  THE  OPEN  AlR 114 

LOVE'S  GALLERY 116 

THE  MINERS 123 

THE  WINNOWER 125 

FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  REALM  OF  DREAMS         .        .        .      128 

"COME,  GENTLE  TREMBLER" 136 

THE  FROZEN  GOBLET 138 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  HEART 144 

THE  BEGGAR  OF  NAPLES 148 

THE  BRICKMAKER 159 

SONG  FOR  A  SABBATH  MORNING 166 

THE  NAMELESS 168 

INDIAN  SUMMER 170 

A  MORNING,  BUT  NO  SUN 171 

To  THE  MASTER  BARDS 173 

"0,   WHEREFORE    SIGH?" 174 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

THE  WAY 175 

THE  GREAT  ARE  FALLING  FROM  us 178 

THE  DEPARTURE 180 

A  PSALM  FOR  THE  SORROWING 182 

NIGHT 184 

WINTER 186 

THE  BARDS 188 

THE  DISTANT  MART 191 

THE  TWINS 194 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  FLORENCE 197 

A  NIGHT  AT  THE  BLACK  SIGN 199 

A  DESERTED  FARM 203 

LINES  TO  A  BIRD 205 

THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR 208 

THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUNERAL 214 

DOOMED  AND  FORGOTTEN 220 

SONG  OF  THE  ALPINE  GUIDE 225 

MORNING  IN  MARTIGNY 228 

A  MAIDEN'S  TEARS 230 

WOMAN 232 

THE  CITY  OF  GOD 234 

THE  TRUANT 238 

RUTH 240 

THE  MARSEILLAISE 242 

THE  OLD  YEAR 245 

A  NIGHT  THOUGHT 246 

SONG  OF  THE  SERF 250 

BALBOA 252 

LABOUR 256 


viii 


CONTENTS. 


/THE  WINDY  NIGHT 268 

A  DIRGE  FOR  A  DEAD  BIRD       .  ,  261 

THE  WITHERING  LEAVES 263 

THE  CLOSING  SCENE 265 

THE  PILGRIM  TO  THE  LAND  OP  SONG 269 

A  CUP  OF  WINE  TO  THE  OLD  YEAR          ...  273 

THE  AWAKENING  YEAR %    278 

PROLOGUE  TO  AN  UNPUBLISHED  SERIO-COMIC  POEM        .       280 

VENICE 283 

NIGHTFALL 289 

L'ENVOI 291 


SYLVIA;    OK,    THE    LAST    SHEPHERD. 

PRELUDE  — THE  MERRY  MOWERS 299 

THE  ECLOGUE 303 

CONCLUSION— THE  MOURNFUL  MOWERS       .  .    335 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE  BLESSED  DEAD 343 

THE  PHANTOM  LEADERS 346 

A  BIRTHDAY  THOUGHT  IN  ITALY 351 

THE  STAYED  CURSE 354 

TWENTY-ONE f  358 

BEATRICE 363 

HERO  AND  LEANDER .  354 

WINTER  367 


CONTENTS.  ix 

THE  SLIGHTED  FLOWER 368 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VETERAN 370 

EVENING  IN  WINTER 380 

A  PLEA  FOR  THE  HOMELESS 383 

THE  CELESTIAL  ARMY      ....  .386 


AIRS    FROM   ALPLAND. 

THE  LISTENERS 395 

THE  FAIR  PILGRIM 397 

SONG  ON  ST.  BERNARD 400 

I  HAVE  LOOKED  ON  A  FACE 402 

THE  CHAMOIS  HUNTER 404 

SONG  OF  THE  CHAMOIS  HUNTER 410 

THE  WARNING 413 

STORM  ON  ST.  BERNARD 415 

FANCIES   IN   THE    FIRELIGHT,   IN   THE   CONVENT  OF   ST. 

BERNARD 422 


LYRIC  POEMS. 


MY  HERMITAGE. 


WITHIN  a  wood,  one  summer's  day, 

And  in  a  hollow,  ancient  trunk, 
I  shut  me  from  the  world  away, 

To  live  as  lives  a  hermit  monk. 

My  cell  a  ghostly   sycamore, 

The  roots  and  boughs  were  dead  with  age ; 
Decay  had  carved  the  gothic  door 

Which  looked  into  my  hermitage. 

My  library  was  large  and  full, 

Where,  ever  as  a  hermit  plods, 
I  read  until  my  eyes  were  dull 

With  tears;  for  all  those  tomes  were  God's. 


14  MY   HERMITAGE. 

The  vine  that  at  my  doorway  swung 
Had  verses  writ  on  every  leaf, 

The  very  songs  the  bright  bees  sung 
In  honey-seeking  visits  brief — 

Not  brief — though  each  stayed  never  long — 
So  rapidly  they  came  and  went 

No  pause  was  left  in  all  their  song, 

For  while  they  borrowed  still  they  lent. 

All  day  the  woodland  minstrels  sang — 
Small  feet  were  in  the  leaves  astir — 

And  often  o'er  my  doorway  rang 
The  tap  of  a  blue-winged  visiter. 

Afar  the  stately  river  swayed, 

And  poured  itself  in  giant  swells, 

While  here  the  brooklet  danced  and  played, 
And  gayly  rung  its  liquid  bells. 

The  springs  gave  me  their  crystal  flood, 
And  my  contentment  made  it  wine — 

And  oft  I  found  what  kingly  food 
Grew  on  the  world-forgotten  vine. 


MY   HERMITAGE.  15 

The  moss,  or  weed,  or  running  flower, 

Too  humble  in  their  hope  to  climb, 
Had  in  themselves  the  lovely  power 

To  make  me  happier  for  the  time. 

And  when  the  starry  night  came  by, 

And  stooping  looked  into  my  cell, 
Then  all  between  the  earth  and  sky 

Was  circled  in  a  holier  spell. 

A  height,  and  depth,  and  breadth  sublime 
O'erspread  the  scene,  and  reached  the  stars, 

Until  Eternity  and  Time 

Seemed  drowning  their  dividing  bars. 

And  voices  which  the  day  ne'er  hears, 

visions  which  the  sun  ne'er  sees, 
earth  and  from  the  distant  spheres, 
Came  on  the  moonlight  and  the  breeze. 

Thus  day  and  night  my  spirit  grew 

In  love  with  that  which  round  me  shone, 

Until  my  calm  heart  fully  knew 
The  joy  it  is  to  be  alone. 


16  MY    HERMITAGE. 

The  time  went  by — till  one  fair  dawn 

I  saw  against  the  eastern  fires 
A  visionary  city  drawn, 

With  dusky  lines  of  domes  and  spires. 

The  wind  in  sad  and  fitful  spells 

Blew  o'er  it  from  the  gates  of  morn, 

Till  I  could  clearly  hear  the  bells 
That  rung  above  a  world  forlorn. 

And  well  I  listened  to  their  voice, 

And  deeply  pondered  what  they  said — 

Till  I  arose — there  was  no  choice — 
I  went  while  yet  the  east  was  red. 

My  wakened  heart  for  utterance  yearned — 
The  clamorous  wind  had  broke  the  spell — 

I  needs  must  teach  what  I  had  learned 
Within  my  simple  woodland  cell. 


AN  INVITATION. 


INSCRIBED   TO    GEORGE   HAMMERSLEY. 


COME  thou,  my  friend ; — the  cool  autumnal  eves 
About  the  hearth  have  drawn  their  magic  rings ; 

There,  while  his  song  of  peace  the  cricket  weaves, 
The  simmering  hickory  sings. 


The  winds  unkennelled  round  the  casements  whine, 
The  sheltered  hound  makes  answer  in  his  dream, 

And  in  the  hayloft,  hark,  the  cock  at  nine, 
Crows  from  the  dusty  beam. 


18  AN   INVITATION. 

The  leafless  branches  chafe  the  roof  all  night, 
And  through  the  house  the  troubled  noises  go, 

While,  like  a  ghostly  presence,  thin  and  white, 
The  frost  foretells  the  snow. 


The  muffled  owl  within  the  swaying  elm 

Thrills  all  the  air  with  sadness  as  he  swings, 

Till  sorrow  seems  to  spread  her  shadowy  realm 
About  all  outward  things. 

Come,  then,  my  friend,  and  this  shall  seem  no  more- 
Come  when  October  walks  his  red  domain, 

Or  when  November  from  his  windy  floor 
Winnows  the  hail  and  rain : 

And  when  old  Winter  through  his  fingers  numb 
Blows  till  his  breathings  on  the  windows  gleam ; 

And  when  the  mill-wheel  spiked  with  ice  is  dumb 
Within  the  neighbouring  stream  : 

Then  come,  for  nights  like  these  have  power  to  wake 
The  calm  delight  no  others  may  impart, 

When  round  the  fire  true  souls  communing  make 
A  summer  in  the  heart. 


AN   INVITATION.  19 

And  I  will  weave  athwart  the  mystic  gloom, 

With  hand  grown  weird  in  strange  romance,  for  thee, 

Bright  webs  of  fancy  from  the  golden  loom 
Of  charmed  Poesy. 

And  let  no  censure  in  thy  looks  be  shown, 
That  I,  with  hands  adventurous  and  bold, 

Should  grasp  the  enchanted  shuttle  which  was  thrown 
Through  mightier  warps  of  old. 


A  SONG. 


BRING  me  the  juice  of  the  honey  fruit, 
The  large  translucent,  amber-hued, 

Rare  grapes  of  southern  isles,  to  suit 
The  luxury  that  fills  my  mood. 

And  bring  me  only  such  as  grew 

Where  fairest  maidens  tend  the  bowers, 

And  only  fed  by  rain  and  dew 

Which  first  had  bathed  a  bank  of  flowers. 


A   SONG.  21 

They  must  have  hung  on  spicy  trees 

In  airs  of  far  enchanted  vales, 
And  all  night  heard  the  ecstasies 

Of  noble-throated  nightingales : 

So  that  the  virtues  which  belong 

To  flowers  may  therein  tasted  be, 
And  that  which  hath  been  thrilled  with  song 

May  give  a  thrill  of  song  to  me. 

For  I  would  wake  that  string  for  thee 
Which  hath  too  long  in  silence  hung, 

And  sweeter  than  all  else  should  be 
The  song  which  in  thy  praise  is  sung. 


THE  DESERTED  ROAD. 


ANCIENT  road,  that  wind'st  deserted 
Through  the  level  of  the  vale, 

Sweeping  toward  the  crowded  market 
Like  a  stream  without  a  sail ; 

Standing  by  thee,  I  look  backward, 
And.  as  in  the  light  of  dreams, 

See  the  years  descend  and  vanish, 
Like  thy  tented  wains  and  teams. 


THE   DESERTED   ROAD. 

Here  I  stroll  along  the  village 
As  in  youth's  departed  morn ; 

But  I  miss  the  crowded  coaches, 
And  the  driver's  bugle-horn — 

Miss  the  crowd  of  jovial  teamsters 
Filling  buckets  at  the  wells, 

With  their  wains  from  Conestoga, 
And  their  orchestras  of  bells. 

To  the  mossy  way-side  tavern 

Comes  the  noisy  throng  no  more, 

And  the  faded  sign,  complaining, 
Swings,  unnoticed,  at  the  door  j 

While  the  old,  decrepid  tollman, 
Waiting  for  the  few  who  pass, 

Reads  the  melancholy  story 
In  the  thickly  springing  grass. 

Ancient  highway,  thou  art  vanquished 

The  usurper  of  the  vale 
Rolls  in  fiery,  iron  rattle, 

Exultations  on  the  gale. 


24  THE   DESERTED   ROAD. 

Thou  art  vanquished  and  neglected ; 

But  the  good  which  thou  hast  done 
Though  by  man  it  be  forgotten, 

Shall  be  deathless  as  the  sun. 


Though  neglected,  gray  and  grassy, 
Still  I  pray  that  my  decline 

May  be  through  as  vernal  valleys 
And  as  blest  a  calm  as  thine. 


A  BUTTERFLY  IN  THE  CITY. 


DEAR  transient  spirit  of  the  fields, 
Thou  com'st  without  distrust, 

To  fan  the  sunshine  of  our  streets 
Among  the  noise  and  dust. 

Thou  leadest  in  thy  wavering  flight 

My  footsteps  unaware, 
Until  I  seem  to  walk  the  vales 

And  breathe  thy  native  air. 


26  A   BUTTERFLY   IN    THE   CITY. 

And  thou  hast  fed  upon  the  flowers, 
And  drained  their  honeyed  springs, 

Till  every  tender  hue  they  wore 
Is  blooming  on  thy  wings. 

I  bless  the  fresh  and  flowery  light 

Thou  bringest  to  the  town, 
But  tremble  lest  the  hot  turmoil 

Have  power  to  weigh  thee  down ; 

For  thou  art  like  the  poet's  song, 

Arrayed  in  holiest  dyes, 
Though  it  hath  drained  the  honeyed  wells 

Of  flowers  of  Paradise, 

Though  it  hath  brought  celestial  hues 

To  light  the  ways  of  life, 
The  dust  shall  weigh  its  pinions  down 

Amid  the  noisy  strife. 

And  yet,  perchance,  some  kindred  soul 

May  see  its  glory  shine, 
And  feel  its  wings  within  his  heart 

As  bright  as  I  do  thine. 


THE  WAY-SIDE  SPRING. 


FAIR  dweller  by  the  dusty  way — 
Bright  saint  within  a  mossy  shrine, 

The  tribute  of  a  heart  to-day 
Weary  and  worn  is  thine. 


The  earliest  blossoms  of  the  year, 
The  sweet-briar  and  the  violet 

The  pious  hand  of  Spring  has  here 
Upon  thy  altar  set. 


28  THE   WAY-SIDE   SPRING. 

And  not  alone  to  thee  is  given 

The  homage  of  the  pilgrim's  knee — 

But  oft  the  sweetest  birds  of  Heaven 
Glide  down  and  sing  to  thee. 

Here  daily  from  his  beechen  cell 
The  hermit  squirrel  steals  to  drink, 

And  flocks  which  cluster  to  their  bell 
Recline  along  thy  brink. 

And  here  the  wagoner  blocks  his  wheels, 
To  quaff  the  cool  and  generous  boon ; 

Here  from  the  sultry  harvest  fields 
The  reapers  rest  at  noon. 


And  oft  the  beggar  masked  with  tan, 
In  rusty  garments  gray  with  dust, 

Here  sits  and  dips  his  little  can, 
And  breaks  his  scanty  crust ; 

And,  lulled  beside  thy  whispering  stream, 
Oft  drops  to  slumber  unawares, 

And  sees  the  angel  of  his  dream 
Upon  celestial  stairs. 


THE   WAY-SIDE    SPRING.  29 

Dear  dweller  by  the  dusty  way, 

Thou  saint  within  a  mossy  shrine, 
The  tribute  of  a  heart  to-day 

Weary  and  worn  is  thine  ! 


A  MAYING. 


PART    FIRST. 

Now  sitting  under  orchard  limbs, 

When  all  the  world  has  gone  a-Maying, 

Oh,  how  the  fancy  soars  and  skims, 
With  yonder  fitful  swallow  playing  ! 

Like  snowy  tents,  the  trees  in  bloom 
Stand  courting  every  bee  that's  winging 

And  in  the  depths  of  their  perfume 
A  whole  community  is  singing. 

The  wind  upon  these  murmuring  bowers, 
From  out  the  fields  of  clover  blowing, 

Shakes  down  a  storm  of  scented  flowers, 
As  if  to  fright  me  with  its  snowing. 


A   MAYING.  31 

The  blue-bird,  which  from  Southern  skies 
Takes  yearly  on  his  wings  their  azure, 

Now  through  the  falling  blossoms  flies, 
And  thrills  the  passing  air  with  pleasure. 

Oh,  would  that  I  could  thus  take  flight, 
And  be,  like  him,  the  earliest  comer, 

That  all  should  hear  me  with  delight, 

And  bless  the  song  that  promised  summer  ! 

Along  the  quiet,  neighbouring  town, 

The  children  chant  their  gladsome  marches ; 

Each  with  a  woodland  gathered  crown, — 
Some  under  flowery  iris-arches. 

Afar  and  near  the  music  swells — 

The  breeze  is  glad  to  waft  their  singing, 

For  never  chime  of  fairy  bells 

Filled  poet's  soul  with  sweeter  ringing. 

See  where  they  go  ! — a  very  cloud 

With  rosy  pleasure  overladen  ! 
Sure  Flora  hath  to-day  endowed 

With  her  own  form  each  little  maiden. 


32 


A   MAYING. 

A  gladness  thrills  the  waiting  grove 
While  they  go  singing  gayly  over ; — 

The  very  fields  are  waked  to  love, 

And  nod  them  welcome  with  the  clover. 

And  every  flower  where  stoops  the  breeze 
With  just  enough  of  force  to  stir  it, 

Rings  out  its  little  chime  of  bees, 
In  pleasure  from  its  vernal  turret. 

The  springs  release  their  fullest  floods, 
From  earth's  overflowing  heart,  unbidden. 

The  woodlands  ope  their  latest  buds, 
There's  not  a  leaf  that  may  be  hidden. 

Yes,  surely  there's  a  love  abroad, 

Through  every  nerve  of  nature  playing, — 
And  all  between  the  sky  and  sod, 

All,  all  the  world  has  gone  a-Maying ! 


SECOND   PART. 

Oh,  wherefore  do  I  sit  and  give 
My  Fancy  up  to  idle  playing  ? 


A    MAYING. 


33 


Too  well  I  know  the  half  who  live — 
One-half  the  world  is  NOT  a-Maying. 


Where  are  the  dwellers  of  the  lanes, 
The  alleys  of  the  stifled  city  ? 

Where  the  waste  forms  whose  sad  remains 
Woo  Death  to  come  for  very  pity  ? 


Where  they  who  tend  the  busy  loom, 
With  pallid  cheek  and  torn  apparel  ? 

The  buds  they  weave  will  never  bloom, 
Their  staring  birds  will  never  carol. 


It  may  be  at  the  thought,  their  souls 

Are  crushed  to-day  in  their  abasement, — 

Oh,  better  they  should  house  with  owls, 
With  poison  vines  about  their  casement ! 


And  where  the  young  of  every  size 
The  factories  draw  from  every  by-way, 

Whose  violets  are  each  other's  eyes, 
But  dull  as  by  a  dusty  highway  ?— 


34  A   MAYING. 

Whose  cotton  lilies  only  grow 

'Mid  whirring  wheels,  on  jarring  spindles, 
Their  roses  in  the  hectic  glow 

To  tell  how  fast  the  small  life  dwindles? 


Or  she  who  plies  the  midnight  thread 
The  while  her  orphan  ones  are  sleeping, 

And  trembles  lest,  for  want  of  bread, 

They  start  from  troubled  dreams  to  weeping  ? 

Not  all  the  floral  wealth  that  sweeps 
The  brow  of  May  in  splendour  shining, 

Were  worth  to  her  the  crust  that  keeps 
Her  little  ones  to-day  from  pining. 

Where  are  the  dusky  miners  ?  they 
Who,  even  in  the  earth  descending, 

Know  well  the  night  before  their  May 
Is  one  which  has  in  life  no  ending  ? 

To  them  'tis  still  a  joy,  I  ween, 

To  know,  while  through  the  darkness  going, 
That  o'er  their  heads  the  smiling  queen 

Stands  with  her  countless  garlands  glowing. 


A    MAYING.  35 

Oh,  ye  who  toil  in  living  tombs 

Of  light  or  dark — no  rest  receiving, 
Far  o'er  your  heads  a  May-time  blooms — 

Oh,  then  be  patient  and  believing. 

Be  patient — when  Earth's  winter  fails, 

The  weary  night  which  keeps  ye  staying — 

Then  through  the  broad  celestial  vales 
Your  spirits  shall  go  out  a-Maying ! 


THE  SUMMER  SHOWER. 


BEFORE  the  stout  harvesters  falleth  the  grain, 
As  when  the  strong  storm-wind  is  reaping  the  plain ; 
And  loiters  the  boy  in  the  briery  lane ; 
But  yonder  aslant  comes  the  silvery  rain, 
Like  a  long  line  of  spears  brightly  burnished  and  tall. 

Adown  the  white  highway,  like  cavalry  fleet, 
It  dashes  the  dust  with  its  numberless  feet. 
Like  a  murmurless  school,  in  their  leafy  retreat, 
The  wild  birds  sit  listening  the  drops  round  them  beat; 
And  the  boy  crouches  close  to  the  blackberry  wall. 


THE    SUMMER    SHOWER. 

The  swallows  alone  take  the  storm  on  their  wing, 
And,  taunting  the  tree-sheltered  labourers,  sing. 
Like  pebbles  the  rain  breaks  the  face  of  the  spring, 
While  a  bubble  darts  up  from  each  widening  ring ; 
And  the  boy,  in  dismay,  hears  the  loud  shower  fall. 

But  soon  are  the  harvesters  tossing  the  sheaves ; 
The  robin  darts  out  from  its  bower  of  leaves ; 
The  wren  peereth  forth  from  the  moss-covered  eaves ; 
And  the  rain-spattered  urchin  n^yr  gladly  perceives 
That  the  beautiful  bow  bendeth  o*^  thew  aJl. 


INEZ. 


DOWN   behind  the  hidden  village,  fringed  around  with 

hazel  brake, 
(Like  a  holy  hermit   dreaming,   half  asleep    and   half 

awake, 
One  who  loveth  the  sweet  quiet  for  the  happy  quiet's 


Dozing,  murmuring  in  its  visions,  lay  the  heaven-ena 
moured  lake. 

And  within  a  dell,  where  shadows  through  the  brightest 
days  abide, 

Like  the  silvery  swimming  gossamer  by  breezes  scat 
tered  wide, 

Fell  a  shining  skein  of  water  that  ran  down  the  lakelet's 
side, 

As  within  the  brain  by  beauty  lulled,  a  pleasant  thought 
,  may  glide. 


INEZ.  39 

When  the  sinking  sun  of  August,  growing  large  in  the 

decline, 
Shot  his  arrows  long  and  golden  through  the  maple  and 

the  pine ; 
And  the  russet-thrush  fled  singing  from  the  alder  to  the 

vine, 
While  the  cat-bird  in  the   hazel   gave  its  melancholy 

whine  j 


And    the   little    squirrel   chattered,   peering    round   the 

hickory  bole, 
And,    a-sudden    like    a    meteor,    gleamed     along    the 

oriole ; — 
There  I  walked  beside  fair  Inez,  and  her  gentle  beauty 

stole 
Like   the  scene   athwart  my  senses,  like  the  sunshine 

through  my  soul. 


And  her  fairy  feet  that  pressed  the  leaves,  a  pleasant 

music  made, 

And  they  dimpled  the  sweet  beds  of  moss  with  blossoms 
thick  inlaid  : — 


40  INEZ. 

There  I  told  her  old  romances,  and  with  love's  sweet  woe 

we  played, 
Till  fair  Inez'  eyes,  like  evening,  held  the  dew  beneath 

their  shade. 


There  I  wove  for  her  love  ballads,  such  as  lover  only 

weaves, 
Till  she  sighed  and  grieved,  as  only  mild  and  loving 

maiden  grieves ; 
And  to  hide  her  tears  she  stooped  to  glean  the  violets 

from  the  leaves, 
As  of  old  sweet  Ruth  went  gleaning  'mid  the  oriental 


Down  we  walked  beside  the  lakelet : — gazing  deep  into 

her  eye, 
There  I  told  her  all  my  passion !     With  a  sudden  blush 

and  sigh, 
Turning   half  away  with   look   askant,  she  only  made 

reply, 
"  How  deep  within  the  water  glows  the  happy  evening 

sky  !" 


INEZ.  41 

Then  I  asked  her  if  she  loved  me,  and  our  hands  met 

each  in  each, 
And  the  dainty,  sighing  ripples  seemed  to  listen  up  the 

reach ; 
While  thus  slowly  with  a  hazel  wand  she  wrote  along 

the  beach, 
"  Love,  like  the  sky,  lies  deepest  ere  the  heart  is  stirred 

to  speech." 


Thus  I  gained  the  love  of  Inez — thus  I  won  her  gentle 
hand ; 

And  our  paths  now  lie  together,  as  our  footprints  on  the 
strand ; 

We  have  vowed  to  love  each  other  in  the  golden  morn 
ing  land, 

When  our  names  from  earth  have  vanished,  like  the 
writing  from  the  sand  ! 


SUNLIGHT  ON  THE  THRESHOLD. 


DEAR  Mary,  I  remember  yet 

The  day  when  first  we  rode  together, 

Through  groves  where  grew  the  violet, 
For  it  was  in  the  Maying  weather. 

And  I  remember  how  the  woods 

Were  thrilled  with  love's  delightful  chorus ; 
How  in  the  scented  air  the  buds, 

Like  our  young  hearts,  were  swelling  o'er  us. 

The  little  birds,  in  tuneful  play, 

Along  the  fence  before  us  fluttered ; 

The  robin  hopped  across  the  way, 

Then  turned  to  hear  the  words  we  uttered ! 


SUNLIGHT   ON   THE   THRESHOLD. 

We  stopped  beside  the  willow-brook, 

That  trickled  through  its  bed  of  rushes ; 

While  timidly  the  reins  you  took, 

I  gathered  blooms  from  briar  bushes ; 


And  one  I  placed,  with  fingers  meek, 

Within  your  little  airy  bonnet ; 
But  then  I  looked  and  saw  your  cheek — 

Another  rose  was  blooming  on  it ! 

Some  miles  beyond  the  village  lay, 

Where  pleasures  were  in  wait  to  wreathe  us 

While  swiftly  flew  the  hours  away, 
As  swiftly  flew  the  road  beneath  us 

How  gladly  we  beheld  arise, 

Across  the  hill,  the  village  steeple ; 

Then  met  the  urchin's  wondering  eyes, 
And  gaze  of  window-peering  people  ! 

The  dusty  coach  that  brought  the  mail, 
Before  the  office-door  was  standing ; 

Beyond,  the  blacksmith,  gray  and  hale, 
With  burning  tire  the  wheel  was  banding. 


SUNLIGHT    ON    THE    THRESHOLD. 

We  passed  some  fruit-trees — after  these 
A  bedded  garden  lying  sunward ; 

Then  saw,  beneath  three  aged  trees, 
The  parsonage  a  little  onward. 

A  modest  building,  somewhat  gray, 

Escaped  from  time,  from  storm,  disaster ; 

The  very  threshold  worn  away 

With  feet  of  those  who'd  sought  the  pastor. 

And  standing  on  the  threshold  there, 
We  saw  a  child  of  angel  lightness ; 

Her  soul-lit  face — her  form  of  air, 

Outshone  the  sunlight  with" their  brightness  ! 

As  then  she  stood  I  see  her  now — 
In  years  perchance  a  half  a  dozen — 

And  Mary,  you  remember  how 

She  ran  to  you  and  called  you  "  cousin  ?" 

As  then,  I  see  her  slender  size, 

Her  flowing  locks  upon  her  shoulder — 

A  six  years'  loss  to  Paradise, 

And  ne'er  on  earth  the  child  grew  older ! 


SUNLIGHT   ON    THE   THRESHOLD. 

Three  times  the  flowers  have  dropped  away, 
Three  winters  glided  gayly  o'er  us, 

Since  here  upon  that  morn  in  May 
The  little  maiden  stood  before  us. 

These  are  the  elms,  and  this  the  door, 
With  trailing  woodbine  overshaded ; 

But  from  the  step,  for  evermore, 

The  sunlight  of  that  child  has  faded ! 


45 


MIDNIGHT. 


THE  moon  looks  down  on  a  world  of  snow, 
And  the  midnight  lamp  is  burning  low, 
And  the  fading  embers  mildly  glow 

In  their  bed  of  ashes  soft  and  deep; 
All,  all  is  still  as  the  hour  of  death ; 
I  only  hear  what  the  old  clock  saith, 
And  the  mother  and  infant's  easy  breath, 

That  flows  from  the  holy  land  of  Sleep. 

Say  on,  old  clock — I  love  you  well, 

For  your  silver  chime,  and  the  truths  you  tell, 

Your  every  stroke  is  but  the  knell 

Of  hope,  or  sorrow  buried  deep ; 
Say  on — but  only  let  me  hear 
The  sound  most  sweet  to  my  listening  ear, 
The  child  and  the  mother  breathing  clear 

Within  the  harvest-fields  of  Sleep. 


MIDNIGHT.  47 

Thou  watchman,  on  thy  lonely  round, 
I  thank  thee  for  that  warning  sound ; 
The  clarion  cock  and  the  baying  hound 

Not  less  their  dreary  vigils  keep ; 
Still  hearkening,  I  will  love  you  all, 
While  in  each  silent  interval 
I  hear  those  dear  breasts  rise  and  fall 

Upon  the  airy  tide  of  Sleep. 

Old  world,  on  time's  benighted  stream 
Sweep  down  till  the  stars  of  morning  beam 
From  orient  shores — nor  break  the  dream 

That  calms  my  love  to  pleasure  deep ; 
Roll  on,  and  give  my  Bud  and  Rose 
The  fulness  of  thy  best  repose, 
The  blessedness  which  only  flows 

Along  the  silent  realms  of  Sleep. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OUR  HOME. 


OH,  thou  whose  beauty  on  us  beams 
With  glimpses  of  celestial  light ; 

Thou  halo  of  our  waking  dreams, 

And  early  star  that  crown' st  our  night 

Thy  light  is  magic  where  it  falls } 
To  thee  the  deepest  shadow  yields ; 

Thou  bring' st  unto  these  dreary  halls 
The  lustre  of  the  summer-fields. 


THE   LIGHT   OF   OUR   HOME.  49 

There  is  a  freedom  in  thy  looks 

To  make  the  prisoned  heart  rejoice ; — 

In  thy  blue  eyes  I  see  the  brooks, 
And  hear  their  music  in  thy  voice. 

And  every  sweetest  bird  that  sings 

Hath  poured  a  charm  upon  thy  tongue ; 
And  where  the  bee  enamoured  clings, 
There  surely  thou  in  love  hast  clung : — 

For  when  I  hear  thy  laughter  free, 

And  see  thy  morning-lighted  hair, 
As  in  a  dream  at  once  I  see 

Fair  upland  realms  and  valleys  fair. 

I  see  thy  feet  empearled  with  dews, 

The  violet's  and  the  lily's  loss ; 
And  where  the  waving  woodland  woos 

Thou  lead'st  me  over  beds  of  moss  j — 

And  by  the  busy  runnel's  side, 

Whose  waters,  like  a  bird  afraid, 
Dart  from  their  fount,  and  flashing,  glide 

Athwart  the  sunshine  and  the  shade. 


50  THE   LIGHT   OF   OUR   HOME. 

Or  larger  streams  our  steps  beguile  ;— 
We  see  the  cascade,  broad  and  fair, 

Dashed  headlong  down  to  foam,  the  whiiu 
Its  iris-spirit  leaps  to  air  ! 

Alas  !  as  by  a  loud  alarm, 

The  fancied  turmoil  of  the  falls 

Hath  driven  me  back  and  broke  the  charm 
Which  led  me  from  these  alien  walls : — 


Yes,  alien,  dearest  child,  are  these 
Close  city  walls  to  thee  and  me  : 

My  homestead  was  embowered  with  trees, 
And  such  thy  heritage  should  be  : — 

And  shall  be;— I  will  make  for  thee 

A  home  within  my  native  vale, 
Where  every  brook  and  ancient  tree 
Shall  whisper  some  long-treasured  tale. 

Now  once  again  I  see  thee  stand, 
As  down  the  future  years  I  gaze, 

The  fairest  maiden  of  the  land, 
The  spirit  of  those  sylvan  ways. 


THE   LIGHT   OF   OUR   HOME.  51 

And  in  thy  looks  again  I  trace 

The  light  of  her  who  gave  thee  birth ; 

She  who  endowed  thy  form  and  face 
With  glory  which  is  not  of  Earth. 

And  as  I  gaze  upon  her  now, 

My  heart  sends  up  a  prayer  for  thee, 

That  thou  mayest  wear  upon  thy  brow 
The  light  which  now  she  beams  on  me. 


THE  TWO  DOVES. 


WHEN  the  Spring's  delightful  store 

Brought  the  blue-birds  to  our  bowers, 
And  the  poplar  at  the  door 

Shook  the  fragrance  from  its  flowers, 
Then  there  came  two  wedded  doves, 

And  they  built  among  the  limbs, 
And  the  murmur  of  their  loves 

Fell  like  mellow,  distant  hymns ; 
There,  until  the  Spring  had  flown, 

Did  they  sit  and  sing  alone, 
In  the  broad  and  flowery  branches. 


THE   TWO   DOVES.  53 

With  the  scented  Summer  breeze 

How  their  music  swam  around, 
Till  my  spirit  sailed  the  seas 

Of  enchanted  realms  of  sound ! 
"  Soul/'  said  I,  "  thy  dream  of  youth 

Is  not  fancy,  nor  deceives, 
For  I  hear  Love's  blissful  truth 

Prophesied  among  the  leaves ; 
Therefore  till  the  Summer's  flown 

Sit  and  sing,  but  not  alone, 
In  the  broad  and  flowery  branches." 


Then  the  harvest  came  and  went, 

And  the  Autumn  marshalled  down 
All  his  host,  and  spread  his  tent 

Over  fields  and  forests  brown ; 
Then  the  doves,  one  evening,  hied 

To  their  old  accustomed  nest ; 
One  went  up,  but  drooped  and  died, 

With  an  arrow  in  its  breast — 
Died  and  dropped ;  while  there,  alone, 

Sat  the  other,  making  moan, 
In  the  broad  and  withering  branches. 


54  THE   TWO   DOVES. 

There  it  sat  and  mourned  its  mate, 

With  a  never-ending  moan, 
Till  I  thought  perchance  its  fate 

Was  prophetic  of  my  own : 
And  at  each  lament  I  heard, 

How  the  tears  sprang  to  my  eyes  ! 
0  !  I  could  have  clasped  the  bird, 

And  communed  with  it  in  sighs ; 
But  it  drooped — and  with  a  moan, 

Closed  its  eyes,  and  there,  alone, 
Dropped  from  out  the  leafless  branches. 


I  beheld  it  on  the  ground, 

Press  the  brown  leaves,  cold  and  dead, 
And  my  brain  went  round  and  round, 

And  I  clasped  my  throbbing  head, 
While  thus  spake  a  voice  of  Love : 

"  Rise,  thou  timid  spirit,  rise  ! 
Earth  has  claimed  the  fallen  dove — 

But  thy  soul  shall  cleave  the  skies  j 
While  the  angel,  earlier  flown, 

Shall  sit  waiting  thee,  alone, 
In  the  green  eternal  branches  I" 


SOLEMN  VOICES. 


I  HEARD  from  out  the  dreary  realms  of  Sorrow 
The  various  tongues  of  Woe  : — 

One  said,  "  Is  there  a  hope  in  the  to-morrow  ?" 
And  many  answered,  "  No  I" 

And  they  arose  and  mingled  their  loud  voices, 

And  cried  in  bitter  breath, 
"  In  all  our  joys  the  Past  alone  rejoices, — 

There  is  no  joy  but  Death. 

"  Oh  dreadful  Past,  beyond  thy  midnight  portal 

Thou  hast  usurped  our  peace ; 
And  if  the  angel  Memory  be  immortal, 

When  shall  this  anguish  cease  ?" 


56  SOLEMN   VOICES. 

And  suddenly  within  the  darkened  distance 

The  solemn  Past  replied, 
"In  my  domains  your  joys  have  no  existence, 

Your  hopes  they  have  not  died ! 


"  Nought  comes  to  me  except  those  ghosts  detested 

Phantoms  of  Wrong  and  Pain ; 
But  whatso'er  Affection  hath  invested, 

Th7  eternal  years  retain. 

"  Then  stand  no  more  with  looks  and  souls  dejected, 

To  woo  and  win  despair, 
The  joys  ye  mourn  the  Future  hath  collected, 
Your  hopes  are  gathered  there. 

"  And  as  the  dew  which  leaves  the  morning  flowers 

Augments  the  after  rain, — 
And  as  the  blooms  which  fall  from  summer  bowers, 

Are  multiplied  again, — 

"  So  shall  the  joys  the  Future  holds  in  keeping, 

Augment  your  after  peace ; 
So  shall  your  hopes,  which  now  are  only  sleeping, 

Return  with  large  increase." 


SOME  THINGS  LOVE  ME. 


ALL  within  and  all  without  me 

Feel  a  melancholy  thrill; 
And  the  darkness  hangs  about  me, 

Oh,  how  still ; 
To  my  feet,  the  river  glideth 

Through  the  shadow,  sullen,  dark 
On  the  stream  the  white  moon  rideth, 

Like  a  barque — 
And  the  linden  leans  above  me, 

Till  I  think  some  things  there  be 
In  this  dreary  world  that  love  me, 

Even  me ! 


58  SOME   THINGS    LOVE    ME. 

G-entle  buds  are  blooming  near  me, 

Shedding  sweetest  breath  around  ; 
Countless  voices  rise,  to  cheer  me, 

From  the  ground ; 
And  the  lone  bird  conies — I  hear  it 

In  the  tall  and  windy  pine 
Pour  the  sadness  of  its  spirit 

Into  mine ; 
There  it  swings  and  sings  above  me, 

Till  I  think  some  things  there  be 
In  this  dreary  world  that  love  me, 

Even  me  1 

Now  the  moon  hath  floated  to  me, 

On  the  stream  I  see  it  sway, 
Swinging,  boat-like,  as  't  would  woo  me 

Far  away — 
And  the  stars  bend  from  the  azure, 

I  could  reach  them  where  I  lie, 
And  they  whisper  all  the  pleasure 

Of  the  sky. 
There  they  hang  and  smile  above  me, 

Till  I  think  some  things  there  be 
In  the  very  heavens  that  love  me, 

Even  me ! 


TO  WORDSWORTH. 


THY  rise  was  as  the  morning,  glorious,  bright ! 
And  error  vanished  like  the  affrighted  dark ; — 
While  many  a  soul,  as  the  aspiring  lark, 
Waked  by  thy  dawn,  soared  singing  to  the  light, 
Drowning  in  gladdest  song  the  earth's  despite  ! 
And  beauty  blossomed  in  all  lowly  nooks — 
Love,  like  a  river  made  of  nameless  brooks, 
Grew  and  exulted  in  thy  wakening  sight ! 
All  nature  hailed  thee  as  a  risen  sun ; 
Nor  will  thy  setting  blur  her  thankful  eyes ! 
While  earth  remains  thy  day  shall  not  be  done, 
Nor  cloud  dispread  to  blot  thy  matchless  skies  ! 
When  Death's  command,  like  Joshua's,  shall  arise, 
Thou'lt  stand  as  stood  the  sun  of  Gibeon ! 


PASSING  THE  ICEBERGS. 


A  FEARLESS  shape  of  brave  device, 

Our  vessel  drives  through  mist  and  rain, 

Between  the  floating  fleets  of  ice — 
The  navies  of  the  northern  main. 

These  arctic  ventures,  blindly  hurled, 
The  proofs  of  Nature's  olden  force, — 

Like  fragments  of  a  crystal  world 
Long  shattered  from  its  skiey  course. 

These  are  the  buccaneers  that  fright 
The  middle  sea  with  dream  of  wrecks, 

And  freeze  the  south  winds  in  their  flight, 
And  chain  the  Gulf-stream  to  their  decks. 


PASSING   THE   ICEBERGS.  61 

Vv  O ' /.          OIF        *^ 
At  every  dragon  prow  and  helm  \ 

There  stands  some  Viking  as  of  yore j" 
Grim  heroes  from  the  boreal  realm 
Where  Odin  rules  the  spectral  shore. 

And  oft  beneath  the  sun  or  moon 

Their  swift  and  eager  falchions  glow — 

While,  like  a  storm-vexed  wind,  the  rune 
Comes  chafing  through  some  beard  of  snow. 

And  when  the  far  North  flashes  up 

With  fires  of  mingled  red  and  gold, 
They  know  that  many  a  blazing  cup 

Is  brimming  to  the  absent  bold. 

Up  signal  there,  and  let  us  hail 

Yon  looming  phantom  as  we  pass ! — 
Note  all  her  fashion,  hull,  and  sail, 

Within  the  compass  of  your  glass. 

See  at  her  mast  the  steadfast  glow 

Of  that  one  star  of  Odin's  throne ; 
Up  with  our  flag,  and  let  us  show 

The  Constellation  on  our  own. 


62  PASSING    THE    ICEBERGS. 

And  speak  her  well ;  for  she  might  say, 
If  from  her  heart  the  words  could  thaw, 

Great  news  from  some  far  frozen  bay, 
Or  the  remotest  Esquimaux. 

Might  tell  of  channels  yet  untold, 
That  sweep  the  pole  from  sea  to  sea ; 

Of  lands  which  God  designs  to  hold 
A  mighty  people  yet  to  be  : — 

Of  wonders  which  alone  prevail 

Where  day  and  darkness  dimly  meet ; — 

Of  all  which  spreads  the  arctic  sail  ] 
Of  Franklin  and  his  venturous  fleet : 


How,  haply,  at  some  glorious  goal 

His  anchor  holds — his  sails  are  furled ; 

That  Fame  has  named  him  on  her  scroll, 
"  Columbus  of  the  Polar  World." 

Or  how  his  ploughing  barques  wedge  on 

Through  splintering  fields,  with  battered  shares, 

Lit  only  by  that  spectral  dawn, 

The  mask  that  mocking  darkness  wears ; — 


PASSING   THE   ICEBERGS.  63 

Or  how,  o'er  embers  black  and  few, 
The  last  of  shivered  masts  and  spars, 

He  sits  amid  his  frozen  crew 

In  council  with  the  norland  stars. 


No  answer — but  the  sullen  flow 

Of  ocean  heaving  long  and  vast ; — 

An  argosy  of  ice  and  snow, 

The  voiceless  North  swings  proudly  past. 


CHRISTINE. 


Supposed  to  be  related  by  a  young  sculptor  on  the  Mil-side 
between  Florence  and  FiesoU. 


COME,  my  friend,  and  in  the  silence  and  the  shadow 

wrapt  apart, 

I  will  loose  the  golden  claspings  of  this  sacred  tome — 

the  heart. 


By  the  bole  of  yonder   cedar,  under  branches   spread 

like  eaves, 
We  will  sit  where  wavering  sunshine  weaves  romance 

among  the  leaves. 


CHRISTINE.  65 

There  by  gentle  airs  of  story  shall  our  dreamy  minds  be 

swayed, 
And  our  spirits  hang  vibrating  like  the  sunshine  with 

the  shade. 

Thou  shalt  sit,  and  leaning  o'er  me,  calmly  look  into 

my  heart, 
Look   as    Fiesole    above   us   looketh    on    Val   d'Arno's 

mart : — 

Shalt  behold  how  Love's   fair   river   down  the  golden 

city  goes, 
As  the   silent  stream  of  Arno  through   the   streets   of 

Florence  flows. 

I  was  standing  o'er  the  marble,  in  the  twilight  falling 

gray, 
All  my  hopes  and  all  my  courage  waning  from  me  like 

the  day : 

There  I  leaned  across  the  statue,  heaving  many  a  sigh 

and  groan, 
For  I  deemed  the  world  as  heartless,  aye,  as  heartless  as 

the  stone  ! 
5 


66  CHRISTINE. 

Nay,  I  well  nigh  thought  the  marble  was  a  portion  of 

my  pain, 
For  it  seemed  a  frozen  sorrow  just  without  my  burning 

brain. 


Then  a  cold  and  deathlike  stupor  slowly  crept  along  my 

frame, 
While   my   life   seemed   passing   outward,   like   a   pale 

reluctant  flame. 

And  my  weary  soul  went  from  me,  and  it  walked  the 

world  alone, 
O'er  a  wide   and   brazen   desert,  in  a  hot   and   brazen 

zone; 

There  it  walked  and  trailed  its  pinions,  slowly  trailed 

them  in  the  sands, 
With  its  hopeless  eyes  fixed  blindly  with  its  hopeless 

folded  hands. 

And  there  came  no  morn, — no  evening  with  its  gentle 

stars  and  moon, 
But  the  sim  amid  the  heavens  made  a  broad  unbroken 

noon. 


CHRISTINE.  67 

And  anon  far  reaching  westward,  with  its  weight  of 

burning  air, 
Lay  an  old  and  desolate  ocean  with  a  dead  and  glassy 

stare. 


There  my  spirit  wandered  gazing,  for  the  goal  no  time 

might  reach, 
With  its  weary  feet  unsandalled  on  the  hard  and  heated 

beach. 

This  it  is  to  feel  uncared  for,  like  a  useless  wayside 

stone, 
This  it  is  to  walk  in  spirit  through  the  desolate  world 

alone ! 


Still  I  leaned  across  the  marble,  and  a  hand  was  on  my 

arm, 
And  my  soul  came  back  unto  me  as  'twere  summoned  by 

a  charm : 


While  a  voice  in  gentlest  whisper,  breathed  my  name 

into  my  ear, 
"Ah,  Andrea,  why  this  silence,  why  this  shadow  and 

this  tear  ?" 


68  CHRISTINE. 

Then  I  felt  that  I  had  wronged  her,  though  I  knew  it 

not  before ; 
I  had  feared  that  she  would  scorn  me  if  I  told  the  love 

I  bore. 


I  had  seen  her,  spoken  to  her,  only  twice  or  thrice  per 
chance  ; 

And  her  mien  was  fine  and  stately,  and  all  heaven  was  in 
her  glance. 

She  had  praised  my  humble  labours,  the  conception  and 

the  art, — 
She   had   said   a   thing  of    beauty  nestled  ever  to  her 

heart. 

And  I  thought  one  pleasant  morning  when  our  eyes 

together  met, 
That  her  orbs  in  dewy  splendour  dropt  beneath  their 

fringe  of  jet. 

Though  her  form  and  air  were  noble,  yet  a  simple  dress 

she  wore, 
Like  yon  maiden  by  the  cypress,  which  the  vines  are 

weeping  o'er. 


CHRISTINE.  69 

And  she  came  all  unattended, — her  protection  in  her 

mien ; 
And  with  somewhat  of  reluctance  bade  me  call  her  name 

Christine. 


Then  that  name  became  a  music,  and  my  dreams  went  to 

the  time, 
And  my  brain  all  day  made  verses,  and  her  beauty  filled 

the  rhyme. 

Never  dreamed  I  that  she  loved  me,  but  I  felt  it  now  the 

more; 
For  her  hand  was  laid  upon  me,  and  her  eyes  were 

brimming  o'er. 

Oh,  she  looked  into  my  spirit,  as  the  stars  look  in  the 

stream, 
Or    as    azure   eyes   of    angels    calm    the    trouble  of  a 

dream. 


Then  I  told  my  love  unto  her,  and  her  sighs  came  deep 

and  long — 
So  yon  peasant  plays  the  measure,  while  the  other  leads 

the  song. 


70  CHRISTINE. 

Then  with  tender  words  we  parted,  only  as  true  lovers 

can; 
I  for  that  deep  love  she  bore  me  was  a  braver,  better 

man. 


I  had  lived  unloved  of  any,  only  loving  Art  before ; 
Now  I  thought  all  things  did  love  me,  and  I  loved  all 
things  the  more. 

I  had  lived  accursed  of  Fortune,  lived  in  penury  worse 

than  pain; 
But,  when  all  the  heaven  was  blackest,  down  it  showered 

in  golden  rain. 

I  was  summoned  to  the  palace,  to  the  presence  of  the 

Duke, 
Feeling  hopes  arise  within  me  that  no  grandeur  could 

rebuke. 


Down  he  kindly  came  to  meet  me,  but  I  thought  the 

golden  throne 
Upon  which  my  love  had  raised  me,  was  not  lower  than 

his  own. 


CHRISTINE.  71 

Then  he  grasped  my  hand  with  fervour,  and  I  gave  as 

warm  return, 
For  I  felt  a  noble  nature  in  my  very  fingers  burn. 


And  I  would  not  bow  below  him,  if  I  could  not  rise 

above, 
For  I  felt  within  my  bosom  all  the  majesty  of  Love. 


"  Sir,"  said  he,  "your  fame  has  reached  me,  and  I  fain 

would  test  your  skill — 
Carve  me  something,  Signior ;  follow  the  free  fancy  of 

your  will. 


Carve   me   something — an  Apollo,  or  a  Dian  with  her 

hounds ; 
Or  Adonis,  dying,  watching  the  young  life  flow  from  his 

wounds ; — 


Or   a   dreamy-lidded   Psyche*,  with  her   Cupid   on  her 

knee; 
Or  a  flying  fretted  Daphne,  taking  refuge  in  the  tree. 


'  ?  CHRISTINE. 

But  I  will  not  dictate,  Signior  j  I  can  trust  your  taste 

and  skill — 
In  the  ancient  armoured  chamber  you  may  carve  me  what 

you  will." 

Then  I  thanked  him  as  he  left  me — and  I  walked  the 

armoured  hall — 
Even    I,  so   late   neglected,  walked  within   the   palace 

wall. 


There  were  many  suits  of  armour,  some  with  battered 

breasts  and  casques ; 
And  I  thought  the  ancestral  phantoms  smiled  upon  me 

from  their  masks. 


And  my  footsteps  were  elastic  with  an  energy  divine — 
Never  in  those  breasts  of  iron  beat  a  heart  as  proud  as 
mine! 


There  for  days  I  walked  the  chamber  with  a  spirit  all 

inflamed, 
And  I  thought  on  all  the  subjects  which  the  generous 

Duke  had  named — 


OF    THE 
CHB1STINE.       UNn  73 

Thought  of  those,  and  thought  of  otters,  slowly  thought 

them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Till  my  stormy  brain  went  throbbing  like  the  surf  along 

the  shore. 

In  despair  I  left  the  palace,  sought  my  humble  room 

again, 
And  my  gentle  Christine  met  me,  and  she  smiled  away 

my  pain. 

"  Courage !"  said  she,  and  my  courage  leapt  within  me 

as  she  spake, 
And  my  soul  was  sworn  to  trial  and  to  triumph  for  her 

sake. 

Who  shall  say  that  love  is  idle,  or  a  weight  upon  the 

mind? 
Friend  !  the  soul  that  dares  to  scorn  it,  hath  in  idle  dust 

reclined. 

I   returned,  and   in   the   chamber   piled   the    shapeless 

Adam-earth ; 
Piled  it  carelessly,  not  knowing  to  what  form  it  might 

give  birth. 


74  CHRISTINE. 

There  I  leaned,  and  dreamed,  above  it,  till  the  day  went 

down  the  west, 
And  the  darkness  came  unto  me  like  an  old  familiar 

guest. 

But  I  started,  for  a  rustle  swept  athwart  the  solemn 

gloom ! 
And  with  light,  like  morn's  horizon,  gleamed  the  far  end 

of  the  room  ! 

Then   a    heavy   sea  of    curtain,   in   a  tempest    rolled 

away! 
Blessed  Virgin !  how  I  trembled  I  but  it  was  not  with 

dismay. 

And  my  eyes  grew  large  and  larger,  as  I  looked  with 

lips  apart; 
And  my  senses  drank  in  beauty,  till  it  drowned  my 

happy  heart. 

There  it  stood,  a  living  statue !  with  its  loosened  locks 

of  brown — 
In   an   attitude   angelic,  with   the  folded   hands   dropt 

down. 


CHRISTINE.  75 

But  I  could  not  see  the  features,  for  a  veil  was  hanging 

there, 
Set  so   thin,  that  o'er  the  forehead   I  could  trace  the 

shadowy  hair. 

Then  the  veil  became  a  trouble,  and  I  wished  that  it 

were  gone, 
And  I  spake,  't  was  but  a  whisper,  "  Let  thy  features  on 

me  dawn  \" 

And  the  heavy  sea  of  drapery  stormed  again  across  my 

sight, 
Leaving  me   appalled  with   wonder,  breathless  in   the 

sudden  night. 

But  for  days,  where'er  I  turned  me,  still  that  blessed 
form  was  there, 

As  one  looketh  to  the  sunlight,  then  beholds  it  every 
where. 

And  for  days  and  days  I  laboured,  with  a  soul  in  courage 

mailed ; 
And  I  wrought  the  nameless  statue ;  but,  alas  !  the  face 

was  veiled. 


7(3  CHRISTINE. 

I  had  tried  all  forms  of  feature— every  face  of  classic 

art — 
Still  the  veil  was  there— I  felt  it— in  my  brain,  and  in 

my  heart ! 

Sorrowing,  I  left  the  palace,  and  again  I  met  Christine, 
And  she  trembled  as  I  told  her  of  the  vision  I  had 
seen. 


And  she  sighed,  "  Ah,  dear  Andrea,"  while  she  clung 

unto  my  breast, 
"  "What  if  this  should  prove  a  phantom,  something  fearful 

and  unblest — 


Something   which   shall    pass    between   us?"    and   she 

clasped  me  with  her  arm ; 
"Nay,"   I   answered,   "love,  I'll  test  it  with  a  most 

angelic  charm. 


Let  me  gaze  upon  thy  features,  love,  and  fear  not  for 

the  rest; 
They  shall  exorcise  the  spirit  if  it  be  a  thing  unblest  I" 


CHRISTINE.  '7 

Then  I  hurried  to  the   statue,  where   so   often  I   had 

failed, 
And  I  made  the  face  of  Christine,  and  it  stood  no  longer 

veiled ! 

With  a  flush  upon  my  forehead,  then  I  called  the  Duke- 
he  came, 

And  in  rustling  silks  beside  him  walked  his  tall  and 
stately  dame ; 

And   they  looked   upon  the  statue— then    on   me  with 

stern  surprise; 
Then  they  looked  upon  each  other  with  a  wonder  in  their 

eyes ! 

«  What  is  this  ?"  spake  out  the  Duchess,  with  her  gaze 

fixed  on  the  Duke ; 
"  What  is  this  ?"  and  me  he  questioned  in  a  tone  of  sharp 

rebuke. 

Like  a  miserable  echo,  I  the  question  asked  again— 
And  he  said,  "  It  is  our  daughter !  your  presumption  for 
your  pain !" 


78  CHRISTINE. 

But   asudden   from  the  curtain,  in  her  jewelled  dress 

complete, 
Swept  a  maiden  in  her  beauty,  and  she  dropped  before 

his  feet — 


And  she  cried,    "0!    father — mother,  cast   aside  that 

frowning  mien ; 
And  forgive  my  own  Andrea,  and  forgive  your  child 

Christine ! 


O !  forgive  us :  for,  believe  me,  all  the  fault  was  mine 

alone !" 
And  they  granted  her  petition,  and  they  blessed  us  as 

their  own. 


THE  FAIRER  LAND. 


ALL  the  night,  in  broken  slumber, 
I  went  down  the  world  of  dreams, 

Through  a  land  of  war  and  turmoil 
Swept  by  loud  and  labouring  streams, 

Where  the  masters  wandered,  chanting 
Ponderous  and  tumultuous  themes. 

Chanting  from  unwieldy  volumes 

Iron  maxims  stern  and  stark, 
Truths  that  swept,  and  burst,  and  stumbled 

Through  the  ancient  rifted  dark ; 
Till  my  soul  was  tossed  and  worried, 

Like  a  tempest-driven  bark. 


80  THE   FATHER   LAND. 

But  anon,  within  the  distance, 
Stood  the  village  vanes  aflame, 

And  the  sunshine,  filled  with  music, 
To  my  oriel  casement  came ; 

While  the  birds  sang  pleasant  valentines 
Against  my  window  frame. 


Then  by  sights  and  sounds  invited, 
I  went  down  to  meet  the  morn, 

Saw  the  trailing  mists  roll  inland 
Over  rustling  fields  of  corn, 

And  from  quiet  hillside  hamlets 
Heard  the  distant  rustic  horn. 


There,  through  daisied  dales  and  byways, 

Met  I  forms  of  fairer  mould, 
Pouring  songs  for  very  pleasure — 

Songs  their  hearts  could  not  withhold — 
Setting  all  the  birds  a-singing 

With  their  delicate  harps  of  gold. 


Some  went  plucking  little  lily-bells, 
That  withered  in  the  hand ; 


THE   FAIRER    LAND.  81 

Some,  where  smiled  a  summer  ocean, 

Gathered  pebbles  from  the  sand ; 
Some,  with  prophet  eyes  uplifted, 

Walked  unconscious  of  the  land. 


Through  that  Fairer  World  I  wandered 
Slowly,  listening  oft  and  long, 

And  as  one  behind  the  reapers, 
Without  any  thought  of  wrong, 

Loitered,  gleaning  for  my  garner 
Flowery  sheaves  of  sweetest  song. 


ARISE. 


THE  shadow  of  the  midnight  hours 

Falls  like  a  mantle  round  my  form ; 
And  all  the  stars,  like  autumn  flowers, 

Are  banished  by  the  whirling  storm. 
The  demon-clouds  throughout  the  sky 

Are  dancing  in  their  strange  delight, 
While  winds  unwearied  play ; — but  I 

Am  weary  of  the  night. 
Then  rise,  sweet  maiden  mine,  arise, 
And  dawn  upon  me  with  thine  eyes. 


ARISE.  83 


II. 

The  linden,  like  a  lover,  stands 

And  taps  against  thy  window  pane ; — 
The  willow  with  its  slender  hands 

Is  harping  on  the  silver  rain. 
I've  watched  thy  gleaming  taper  die, 

And  hope  departed  with  the  light — 
The  winds  unwearied  play ; — but  I 

Am  weary  of  the  night. 
Then  rise,  sweet  maiden  mine,  arise, 
And  dawn  upon  me  with  thine  eyes. 

in. 

The  gentle  morning  comes  apace, 

And  smiling  bids  the  night  depart ; 
Rise,  maiden,  with  thy  orient  face, 

And  smile  the  shadow  from  my  heart ! 
The  clouds  of  night  affrighted  fly — 

Yet  darkness  seals  my  longing  sight — 
All  nature  gladly  sings — while  I 

Am  weary  of  the  night. 
Then  rise,  sweet  maiden  mine,  arise, 
And  dawn  upon  me  with  thine  eyes. 


THE  MAID  OF  LINDEN  LANE. 


LITTLE  maiden,  you  may  laugh 
That  you  see  me  wear  a  staff, 
But  your  laughter  is  the  chaff 

From  the  melancholy  grain. 
Through  the  shadows  long  and  cool 
You  are  tripping  down  to  school ; 
But  your  teacher's  cloudy  rule 
Only  dulls  the  shining  pool 

With  its  loud  and  stormy  rain. 

There's  a  higher  lore  to  learn 
Than  his  knowledge  can  discern, 
There's  a  valley  deep  and  dern 
In  a  desolate  domain ; 


THE    MAID   OF   LINDEN   LANE.  85 

But  for  this  he  has  no  chart — 
Shallow  science,  shallow  art ! 
Thither— oh,  be  still,  my  heart- 
One  too  many  did  depart 

From  the  halls  of  Linden  Lane. 


I  can  teach  you  better  things ; 
For  I  know  the  secret  springs 
Where  the  spirit  wells  and  sings 

Till  it  overflows  the  brain. 
Come,  when  eve  is  closing  in, 
When  the  spiders  gray  begin, 
Like  philosophers,  to  spin 
Misty  tissues,  vain  and  thin, 

Through  the  shades  of  Linden  Lane. 

While  you  sit  as  in  a  trance, 

Where  the  moon-made  shadows  dance, 

From  the  distaff  of  Romance 

I  will  spin  a  silken  skein : 
Down  the  misty  years  gone  by 
I  will  turn  your  azure  eye  j 
You  shall  see  the  changeful  sky 
Falling  dark  or  hanging  high 

Over  the  halls  of  Linden  Lane. 


86  THE    MAID    OF   LINDEN   LANE. 

Come,  and  sitting  by  the  trees, 
Over  long  and  level  leas, 
Stretched  between  us  and  the  seas, 

I  can  point  the  battle-plain  : 
If  the  air  comes  from  the  shore 
We  may  hear  the  billows  roar ; 
But  oh  !  never,  never  more 
Shall  the  wind  come  as  of  yore 

To  the  halls  of  Linden  Lane. 


Those  were  weary  days  of  woe, 
Ah  !  yes,  many  years  ago, 
When  a  cruel  foreign  foe 

Sent  his  fleets  across  the  main. 
Though  all  this  is  in  your  books, 
There  are  countless  words  and  looks, 
Which,  like  flowers  in  hidden  nooks, 
Or  the  melody  of  brooks, 

There's  no  volume  can  retain. 


Come,  and  if  the  night  be  fair, 
And  the  moon  be  in  the  air, 
I  can  tell  you  when  and  where 
Walked  a  tender  loving  twain  : 


THE   MAID   OF   LINDEN   LANE.  87 

Though  it  cannot  be,  alas  ! 
Yet,  as  in  a  magic  glass, 
We  will  sit  and  see  them  pass 
Through  the  long  and  rustling  grass 
At  the  foot  of  Linden  Lane. 


Yonder  did  they  turn  and  go, 
Through  the  level  lawn  below, 
With  a  stately  step  and  slow, 

And  long  shadows  in  their  train : 
Weaving  dreams  no  thoughts  could  mar, 
Down  they  wandered  long  and  far, 
Gazing  toward  the  horizon's  bar, 
On  their  love's  appointed  star 

Rising  in  the  Lion's  Mane. 

As  across  a  summer  sea, 
Love  sailed  o'er  the  quiet  lea, 
Light  as  only  love  may  be, 

Freighted  with  no  care  or  pain. 
Such  the  night ;  but  with  the  morn 
Brayed  the  distant  bugle-horn — 
Louder  !  louder  !  it  was  borne — 
Then  were  anxious  faces  worn 

In  the  halls  of  Linden  Lane. 


88  THE    MAID    OP   LINDEN   LANE. 

With  the  trumpet's  nearer  bray, 
Flashing  but  a  league  away, 
Saw  we  arms  and  banners  gay 

Stretching  far  along  the  plain. 
Neighing  answer  to  the  call, 
Burst  our  chargers  from  the  stall ; 
Mounted,  here  they  leaped  the  wall, 
There  the  stream :  while  in  the  hall 

Eyes  were  dashed  with  sudden  rain. 


Belted  for  the  fiercest  fight, 

And  with  swimming  plume  of  white, 

Passed  the  lover  out  of  sight 

With  the  hurrying  hosts  amain. 
Then  the  thunders  of  the  gun 
On  the  shuddering  breezes  run, 
And  the  clouds  o'erswept  the  sun, 
Till  the  heavens  hung  dark  and  dun 

Over  the  halls  of  Linden  Lane. 


Few  that  joined  the  fiery  fray 
Lived  to  tell  how  went  the  day ; 
But  that  few  could  proudly  say 
How  the  foe  had  fled  the  plain. 


THE   MAID   OF   LINDEN 

Long  the  maiden's  eyes  did  yearn 
For  her  cavalier's  return ; 
But  she  watched  alone  to  learn 
That  the  valley  deep  and  dern 
Was  her  desolate  domain. 

Leave  your  books  awhile  apart ; 
For  they  cannot  teach  the  heart ; 
Come,  and  I  will  show  the  chart 

Which  shall  make  the  mystery  plain 
I  can  tell  you  hidden  things 
Which  your  knowledge  never  brings ; 
For  I  know  the  secret  springs 
Where  the  spirit  wells  and  sings, 

Till  it  overflows  the  brain. 

Ah,  yes,  lightly  sing  and  laugh — 
Half  a  child  and  woman  half; 
But  your  laughter  is  the  chaff 

From  the  melancholy  grain ; 
And,  ere  many  years  shall  fly, 
Age  will  dim  your  laughing  eye, 
And  like  me  you'll  totter  by ; 
For  remember,  love,  that  I 

Was  the  Maid  of  Linden  Lane. 


THE  SWISS  STREET-SINGER. 


THROW  up  the  glassy  casement  wide, 

And  fling  the  heavy  blinds  aside, 

To  let  the  sunshine  and  the  tide 

Of  music  through  the  chamber  glide. 

Oh,  list !  it  is  a  maiden  young, 

Who  singeth  in  a  foreign  tongue ; 

She  poureth  songs  in  strangest  guise, 

In  words  translated  by  her  eyes. 

Come,  youth  and  childhood,  form  the  ring, 
And,  maidens,  from  the  window  lean, 
To  bid  the  exile  Switzer  sing, 
And  strike  the  trembling  tambourine  I 


THE    SWISS    STREET-SINGER. 

The  glistening  azure  in  her  eye 

Hath  something  of  her  native  sky ; 

The  music  of  the  rill  and  breeze 

Are  mingled  in  her  melodies ; 

And  in  her  form's  tall  graceful  lines 

There's  something  of  the  mountain  pines  ; 

And,  oh,  believe  her  soul  may  glow 

As  purely  as  the  Alpine  snow. 

Come,  youth  and  childhood,  form  the  ring, 
And,  maidens,  from  the  window  lean, 
To  bid  the  exile  Switzer  sing, 
And  strike  the  trembling  tambourine  ! 

Oh,  gaze  not  on  her  scornfully, 
For,  gentle  lady,  like  to  thee, 
That  wandering  maiden  well  may  be 
Acquaint  with  pain  and  misery, — 
And  sad  remembrance  prompts  the  lay 
That  telleth  of  the  far  away ; 
While  wildly  in  her  music  swell 
The  glory,  name,  and  land  of  Tell ! 

Then,  youth  and  childhood,  form  the  ring, 
And,  maidens,  from  the  window  lean, 
To  bid  the  exile  Switzer  sing, 
And  strike  the  trembling  tambourine ! 


A  LEAF  FROM  THE  PAST. 

INSCRIBED   TO    HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW. 

WITH  thee,  dear  friend,  though  far  away, 
I  walk,  as  on  some  vanished  day, 
And  all  the  past  returns  in  beautiful  array. 

With  thee  I  still  pace  to  and  fro 
Along  the  airy  portico, 
And  gaze  upon  the  flowers  and  river  winding  slow, 

And  there,  as  in  some  fairy  realm, 
I  hear  the  sweet  birds  overwhelm 
The  fainting  air  with  music  from  the  lofty  elm. 


A   LEAF   FROM    THE   PAST.  93 

And  hear  the  winged  winds,  like  bees, 
G-o  swarming  in  the  tufted  trees, 
Or  dropping  low  away,  o'erweighed  with  melodies. 


We  walk  beneath  the  cedar's  eaves, 
Where  statued  Ceres,  with  her  sheaves, 
Stands  sheltered  in  a  bower  of  trailing  vines  and  leaves. 

Or  strolling  by  the  garden  fence, 
Drinking  delight  with  every  sense, 
We  watch  th'  encamping  sun  throw  up  his  golden  tents. 

With  thee  I  wander  as  of  old, 
When  fall  the  linden's  leaves  of  gold, 
Or  when  old  winter  whitely  mantles  all  the  wold. 

As  when  the  low  salt  marsh  was  mown, 
With  thee  I  idly  saunter  down 
Between  the  long  white  village  and  the  towered  town. 

I  see  the  sultry  bridge  and  long, 
The  river  where  the  barges  throng — 
The  bridge  and  river  made  immortal  in  thy  song. 


94  A   LEAF   FROM   THE   PAST. 

In  dreams  like  these,  of  calm  delight, 
I  live  again  the  wintry  night, 
When  all  was  dark  without,  but  all  within  was  bright — 


When  she,  fit  bride  for  such  as  thou, 
She  with  the  quiet,  queenly  brow, 
Read  from  the  minstrel's  page  with  tuneful  voice  and  low. 

Still  in  the  crowd  or  quiet  nook, 
I  hear  thy  tone — behold  thy  look — 
Thou  speakest  with  thine  eyes  as  from  a  poet's  book. 

I  listen  to  thy  cheering  word, 
And  sadness,  like  the  affrighted  bird, 
Flies  fast,  and  flies  afar,  until  it  is  unheard. 


ROSALIE. 


A  BALLAD. 

FULL  many  dreamy  summer  days, 

Full  many  wakeful  summer  nights, 
Fair  Rosalie  had  walked  the  ways 

Wherein  young  Love  delights. 

Love  took  her  by  the  willing  hand — 
And  oft  she  kissed  the  smiling  boy- 
He  led  her  through  his  native  land, 
The  innocent  fields  of  Joy. 


ROSALIE. 

As  oft  the  evening  tryste  was  set, 
In  cedarn  grottoes  far  apart, 
That  young  and  lovely  maiden  met 
The  Minstrel  of  her  heart. 

Then  Time,  like  some  celestial  barque, 

With  viewless  sails  and  noiseless  oars, 
Conveyed  them  through  the  starry  dark 
Beyond  the  midnight  shores. 

And  once  he  sang  enchanted  words, 
In  music  fashioned  to  her  choice, 
Until  the  many  dreaming  birds 

Learned  beauty  from  his  voice. 

He  sang  to  her  of  charmed  realms, 

Of  streams  and  lakes  discerned  by  chance, 
Of  fleets,  with  golden  prows  and  helms, 
Deep  freighted  with  romance ; 

Of  vales,  of  purple  mountains  far, 

With  flowers  below  and  stars  above, 
And  of  all  homelier  things  that  are 
Made  beautiful  by  Love ; 


ROSALIE. 

Of  rural  days,  when  harvest  sheaves 

Along  the  heated  uplands  glow, 
Or  when  the  forest  mourns  its  leaves, 
And  nests  are  full  of  snow. 

He  sang  how  evil  evermore 

Keeps  ambush  near  our  holiest  ground, 
But  how  an  angel  guards  the  door 
Wherever  Love  is  found. 

Even  while  he  sang  new  flowers  had  bloomed, 

New  stars  looked  through  the  river  mist, 
And  suddenly  the  moon  illumed 
The  temple  of  their  tryste. 

And  with  those  flowers  he  crowned  her  there, 
With  vows  which  Time  should  not  revoke ; 
Then  from  the  nearest  bough  his  hair 
She  bound  with  druid  oak. 

Oh,  moon  and  stars,  oh,  leaves  and  flowers, 

Ye  heard  their  plighted  accents  then — 
And  heard  within  those  sacred  bowers 
The  tramp  of  armed  men  ! 

7 


97 


98  ROSALIE. 

Her  father  spake ;  his  angry  word 

The  youth  returned  in  keener  heat ; 
But  when  replied  the  old  man's  sword, 
The  youth  lay  at  his  feet. 


And  as  a  dreamer  breathless,  weak, 

From  some  immeasured  turret  thrown, 
For  very  terror  cannot  shriek, 
Fair  Rosalie  dropt  down. 

They  raised  her  in  her  drowning  swoon, 

And  placed  her  on  a  palfrey  white; 
A  statue,  paler  than  the  moon, 

They  bore  her  through  the  night. 

Loud  rang  the  many  horses'  hoofs, 

Like  forging  hammers,  fast  and  full ; 
To  her  they  seemed  to  tread  on  woofs 
Of  deep  and  noiseless  wool. 

And  like  a  fated  bridal  flower, 

From  some  betrothed  bosom  blown, 
They  bore  her  to  her  prison  tower, 
And  left  her  there  alone. 


ROSALIE.  99 

And  when  the  cool  auroral  air 

Had  won  her  tangled  dreams  apart, 
She  found  the  blossoms  in  her  hair — 
Their  memory  in  her  heart. 

She  rose  and  paced  the  chamber  dim, 

Arid  watched  the  dying  moon  and  stars, 
Until  the  sun's  broad  burning  rim 

Blazed  through  the  lattice  bars. 

About  her  face  the  warm  light  stole, 

And  yet  her  eyes  no  radiance  won ; 
For  through  the  prison  of  her  soul 

There  streamed  no  morning  sun. 

The  day  went  by ;  and  o'er  the  vale 

She  saw  the  rising  river  mist; 
And  like  a  bride  subdued  and  pale, 
Arrayed  her  for  the  tryste, 

In  nuptial  robes,  long  wrought  by  stealth, 

With  opals  looped,  pearl-broidered  hems  : 
And  at  her  waist  a  cinctured  wealth 
Of  rare  ancestral  gems. 


100  ROSALIE. 

The  stars  came  out,  and  by  degrees 
She  heard  a  distant  music  swell, 
While  through  the  intervening  trees 
Sang  the  glad  chapel  bell. 

She  heard  her  name,  and  knew  the  call : 
At  once  the  noiseless  door  swung  wide 
She  passed  the  shadowy  stair  and  hall — 
And  One  was  at  her  side. 


One,  whose  dear  voice  had  charmed  her  long, 

And  wooed  her  spirit  to  delight, 
With  airs  of  wild  unwritten  song, 
On  many  a  summer  night. 

They  passed  the  village  hand-in-hand  ! 

They  gazed  upon  the  minster  towers, 
And  heard  behind  a  singing  band 
Of  maidens  bearing  flowers. 

Age  blessed  them  as  they  gayly  passed, 

And  rosy  children  danced  before, 
Until  with  trembling  hearts  at  last 
They  gained  the  chapel  door. 


ROSALIE.  101 

But  music  in  its  triumph  brings 

New  courage  unto  old  and  young ; 
And  with  a  rustle,  as  of  wings, 
The  choir  arose  and  sung. 

And  while  the  anthem,  loud  or  low, 

Swung  round  them  like  a  golden  cloud, 
They  walked  the  aisle,  subdued  and  slow, 
And  at  the  altar  bowed. 

And  sacred  hands  were  o'er  them  spread, 
And  blessings  passed  away  in  prayer ; 
And  then  the  soul  of  music  sped 

Once  more  throughout  the  air. 

It  swelled  and  dropped  and  waned  and  rose, 

With  flights  for  ever  skyward  given, 

Like  birds  whose  pinions  spread  and  close, 

And  rise  thereby  to  heaven. 

A  murmur,  like  the  soft  desire 

Of  leafy  airs,  went  up  the  skies, 
And  Rosalie  beheld  the  choir 
On  angel  wings  arise. 


102  ROSALIE. 

Bright  angels  all  encompassed  her, 

An  angel  in  the  altar  stood, 
And  all  her  train  of  maidens  were 
A  winged  multitude. 

The  chapel  walls  dissolved  and  swept 
Away,  like  mists  when  winds  arise, 
For  Rosalie  that  hour  had  kept 
Her  tryste  in  Paradise. 


THE  STRANGER  ON  THE  SILL. 


BETWEEN  broad  fields  of  wheat  and  corn 
Is  the  lowly  home  where  I  was  born ; 
The  peach-tree  leans  against  the  wall, 
And  the  woodbine  wanders  over  all ; 
There  is  the  shaded  doorway  still, 
But  a  stranger's  foot  has  crossed  the  sill. 

There  is  the  barn — and,  as  of  yore, 
I  can  smell  the  hay  from  the  open  door, 
And  see  the  busy  swallow's  throng, 
And  hear  the  peewee's  mournful  song; 
But  the  stranger  comes — oh  !  painful  proof— 
His  sheaves  are  piled  to  the  heated  roof. 

There  is  the  orchard — the  very  trees 

Where  my  childhood  knew  long  hours  of  ease, 


104  THE    STRANGER   ON   THE   SILL. 

And  watched  the  shadowy  moments  run 
Till  my  life  imbibed  more  shade  than  sun : 
The  swing  from  the  bough  still  sweeps  the  air, 
But  the  stranger's  children  are  swinging  there. 

There  bubbles  the  shady  spring  below, 
With  its  bulrush  brook  where  the  hazels  grow 
'Twas  there  I  found  the  calamus  root, 
And  watched  the  minnows  poise  and  shoot. 
And  heard  the  robin  lave  his  wing : — 
But  the  stranger's  bucket  is  at  the  spring. 

Oh,  ye  who  daily  cross  the  sill, 

Step  lightly,  for  I  love  it  still ; 

And  when  you  crowd  the  old  barn  eaves, 

Then  think  what  countless  harvest  sheaves 

Have  passed  within  that  scented  door 

To  gladden  eyes  that  are  no  more. 

Deal  kindly  with  these  orchard  trees ; 
And  when  your  children  crowd  your  knees, 
Their  sweetest  fruit  they  shall  impart, 
As  if  old  memories  stirred  their  heart : 
To  youthful  sport  still  leave  the  swing, 
And  in  sweet  reverence  hold  the  spring. 


ENDYMION. 


WHAT  time  the  stars  first  flocked  into  the  blue 
Behind  young  Hesper,  shepherd  of  the  eve, 

Sleep  bathed  the  fair  boy's  lids  with  charmed  dew, 
Mid  flowers  that  all  day  blossomed  to  receive 
Endymion. 

Lo  !  where  he  lay  encircled  in  his  dream ; 

The  moss  was  glad  to  pillow  his  soft  hair, 
And  toward  him  leaned  the  lily  from  the  stream, 

The  hanging  vine  waved  wooing  in  the  air 
Endymion. 

The  brook  that  erewhile  won  its  easy  way, 
O'errun  with  meadow  grasses  long  and  cool, 

Now  reeled  into  a  fuller  tide  and  lay 
Caressing  in  its  clear  enamoured  pool 
Endymion. 


106  ENDYMION. 

And  all  the  sweet,  delicious  airs  that  fan 
Enchanted  gardens  in  their  hour  of  bloom. 

Blown  through  the  soft  invisible  pipes  of  Pan, 
Breathed,  'mid  their  mingled  music  and  perfume, 
Endymion. 

The  silvery  leaves  that  rustled  in  the  light, 

Sent  their  winged  shadows  o'er  his  cheek  entranced; 

The  constellations  wandered  down  the  night, 

And  whispered  to  the  dew-drops  where  they  danced, 
Endymion. 

Lo  !  there  he  slept,  and  all  his  flock  at  will 

Went  star-like  down  the  meadow's  azure  mist; — 

What  wonder  that  pale  Dian  with  a  thrill 

Breathed  on  his  lips  her  sudden  love,  and  kissed 
Endymion  ! 


HAZEL  DELL. 


FROM  the  early  bells  of  morning, 
Till  the  evening  chimes  resound, 

In  the  busy  world,  of  labour, 
For  my  daily  bread  Fm  bound, 

With  no  hopes  of  more  possessions 
Than  six  scanty  feet  of  ground  ! 

But  my  soul  hath  found  an  empire, 
Hid  between  two  sister  hills, 

Where  she  dreams  or  roams  at  pleasure, 
Finding  whatsoe'er  she  wills ; 

There  sweet  Hope  her  fairest  promise 
With  a  lavish  hand  fulfils. 


108  HAZEL  DELL. 

And  the  path  that  windeth  thither, 
There's  no  mortal  foot  may  tread, 

For  it  leads  to  charmed  valleys, 
With  enchanted  blossoms  spread, 

Under  groves  of  flowering  poplars, 
Through  the  violets'  purple  bed. 

Overveiled  with  vines  and  water, 
Dropt  from  many  a  hidden  well, 

Are  the  rocks  which  make  the  gateway 
And  the  water's  silver  bell, 

Keeps  the  warder,  Silence,  wakeful 
At  the  gate  of  Hazel  Dell ! 

Nor  may  any  pass  the  warder 
Till  the  watchword  they  repeat ; 

They  must  go  arrayed  like  angels, 
In  their  purity  complete ; 

And  the  stave-supported  pilgrim 
Lay  the  sandals  from  his  feet ! 

And  within  the  purple  valley, 
Where  perpetual  summer  teems, 

Whisper  silken-tongued  runnels, 
Melting  into  larger  streams, 


HAZEL  DELL.  109 

Winding  round  through  sun  and  shadow, 
Like  a  gentle  maiden's  dreams. 


Then  let  labour  hold  me  vassal, 
Since  my  soul  can  scorn  his  reign  ! 

Even  fetters  for  the  body 

Were  but  bands  of  sand,  and  vain, 

While  the  spirit  thus  can  wander, 
Singing  through  its  own  domain ! 

In  the  long  still  hours  of  darkness, 
Stretched  from  weary  chime  to  chime; 

Thus  beside  my  own  Castalie 
I  can  gather  flowers  of  rhyme, 

And  with  all  their  fresh  dew  freighted, 
Fling  them  on  the  stream  of  time ! 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  LOVE. 


SHE  came  as  comes  the  summer  wind, 
A  gust  of  beauty  to  my  heart ; 

Then  swept  away,  but  left  behind 
Emotions  which  shall  not  depart. 

Unheralded  she  came  and  went, 
Like  music  in  the  silent  night ; 

Which,  when  the  burthened  air  is  spent, 
Bequeaths  to  memory  its  delight; 


A   GLIMPSE    OP   LOVE.  Ill 

Or;  like  the  sudden  April  bow 

That  spans  the  violet-waking  rain  : 
She  bade  those  blessed  flowers  to  grow 

Which  may  not  fall  or  fade  again. 


Far  sweeter  than  all  things  most  sweet, 
And  fairer  than  all  things  most  fair. 

She  came  and  passed  with  footsteps  fleet, 
A  shining  wonder  in  the  air. 


LINES  TO  A  BLIND  GIRL. 


BLIND  as  the  song  of  birds, 

Feeling  its  way  into  the  heart, — 

Or  as  a  thought  ere  it  hath  words, — 
As  blind  thou  art : — 

Or  as  a  little  stream 

A  dainty  hand  might  guide  apart, 
Or  Love — young  Love's  delicious  dream, — 

As  blind  thou  art : — 

Or  as  a  slender  bark, 

Where  summer's  varying  breezes  start — 
Or  blossoms  blowing  in  the  dark, — 

As  blind  thou  art : — 


LINES   TO   A  BLIND   GIRL.  113 

Or  as  the  Hope,  Desire 

Leads  from  the  bosom's  crowded  mart, 
Deluded  Hope,  that  soon  must  tire, — 

As  blind  thou  art : — 


The  chrysalis  that  folds 

The  wings  that  shall  in  light  depart, 
Is  not  more  blind  than  that  which  holds 

The  wings  within  thy  heart. 

For  when  thy  soul  was  given 

Unto  the  earth,  a  beauteous  trust, 

To  guard  its  matchless  glory,  Heaven 
Endungeoned  it  in  dust. 
8 


ONCE  MORE  INTO  THE  OPEN  AIR. 


ONCE  more  into  the  open  air, 

Once  more  beneath  the  summer  skies, 
To  fields  and  woods  and  waters  fair, 

I  come  for  all  which  toil  denies. 

I  loiter  down  through  sun  and  shade, 
And  where  the  waving  pastures  bloom, 

And  near  the  mowers'  swinging  blade 
Inhale  the  clover's  sweet  perfume. 


ONCE   MORE   INTO   THE   OPEN   AIR.  115 

The  brook  which  late  hath  drank  its  fill, 

Out-sings  the  merry  birds  above ; 
The  river  past  the  neighbouring  hill 

Flows  like  a  quiet  dream  of  love. 

Yon  rider  in  the  harvest  plain, 

The  master  of  these  woods  and  fields, 

Knows  not  how  largely  his  domain 
To  me  its  richest  fulness  yields. 

He  garners  what  he  reaps  and  mows, 

But  there  is  that  he  cannot  take, 
The  love  which  Nature's  smile  bestows, 

The  peace  which  she  alone  can  make. 


LOVE'S  GALLERY. 
PICTURE  FIRST. 

MIRIAM. 

FAIR  Miriam's  was  an  ancient  manse 

Upon  the  open  plain  : 
It  looked  to  ocean's  dim  expanse, 
Saw  miles  of  meadow  pasture  dance 

Beside  the  breezy  main. 

A  porch,  with  woodbines  overgrown, 

Faced  eastward  to  the  shore ; 
While  Autumn's  sun,  through  foliage  brown, 
;Twixt  leaf  and  lattice  flickered  down 
To  tesselate  the  floor. 


LOVE'S   GALLERY. 

There  walked  fair  Miriam  ;  —  as  she  stept 

A  rustle  thrilled  the  air  ; 
Rare,  starry  gems  her  tresses  kept, 
While  o'er  her  brow  a  crescent  swept 
The  darkness  of  her  hair. 


But  she  too  oft  had  paced  the  hall 

To  ponder  chronicles  which  Time 

Had  given  at  many  an  interval  — 

Ancestral  shadows  on  the  wall 

Looking  their  pride  sublime. 

And  she  too  well  had  learned  their  look, 
And  wore  upon  her  tender  age 

A  haughtiness  I  could  not  brook— 

I  said,  it  is  a  glorious  book, 

But  dared  not  trust  the  page. 


PICTURE  SECOND. 

BERTHA. 

Mild  Bertha's  was  a  home  withdrawn 
Beyond  the  city's  din ; 


118  LOVE'S    GALLERY. 

Tall  Lombard  trees  hemmed  all  the  lawn, 
And  up  the  long  straight  walks,  a  dawn 
Of  blossoms  shone  within. 


Along  the  pebble  paths  the  maid 

Walked  with  the  early  hours, 
With  careful  hands  the  vines  arrayed, 
And  plucked  the  small  intruding  blade 
From  formal  plots  of  flowers. 

A  statued  Dian  to  the  air 

Bequeathed  its  mellow  light ; 
She  called  the  flying  figure  fair, 
The  forward  eyes  and  backward  hair, 

And  praised  the  marble's  white. 

Her  pulses  coursed  their  quiet  ways, 

From  heart  to  brain  controlled ; 
She  read  and  praised  in  studied  phrase 
The  bards  whom  it  were  sin  to  praise 
In  measured  words  and  cold. 

I  love  the  broad  bright  world  of  snow, 
And  every  strange  device 


LOVE  S    GALLERY.  119 

Which  makes  the  woods  a  frozen  show, 
The  rivers  hard  and  still — but,  oh, 
Ne'er  loved  a  heart  of  ice. 


PICTURE  THIRD. 

MELANIE. 

Within  a  dusky  grove,  where  wound 

Great  centenarian  vines, 
Binding  the  shadows  to  the  ground, 
The  dark-eyed  Melanie  was  found 

Walking  between  the  pines. 

A  sudden  night  of  hair  was  thrown 

About  her  shining  neck; 
All  woes  she  buried  in  her  own — 
Her  sea  of  sadness  carried  down 

All  lighter  thoughts  to  wreck. 

The  past  was  hers ;  the  coming  years 

No  golden  promise  brought : — 
She  gazed  upon  the  midnight  spheres 
To  read  her  future ;  and  the  tears 

Sprang  vassals  to  her  thought. 


120  LOVE'S   GALLERY. 

She  heard  all  night  through  her  domain 

The  river  moan  below; 
The  whip-poor-will  and  owlet's  strain 
Filled  up  the  measure  of  her  pain 

In  streams  of  fancied  woe. 

Thus  as  the  mournful  Melanie 

Swept  through  my  waking  dream, 
I  said :  Oh  soul,  still  wander  free, 
It  is  not  written  thou  shalt  see 

Thy  image  in  this  stream. 


PICTURE  FOURTH. 

AURELIA, 

Where  flamed  a  field  of  flowers — and  where 
Sang  noisy  birds  and  brooks — 

Aurelia  to  the  frolic  air 

Shook  down  her  wanton  waves  of  hair, 
With  laughter-loving  looks. 

Her  large  and  lustrous  eyes  of  blue, 

Dashed  with  the  dew  of  mirth, 

Bequeathed  to  all  their  brilliant  hue ; 

She  saw  no  shades,  nor  even  knew 

She  walked  the  heavy  earth. 


LOVE'S   GALLERY.  \\  Y   *  121 

C 

Her  ringing  laughter  woke  the  de 

When  fell  the  autumn  blight  ;— 

She  sang  through  all  the  rainy  spells — 

For  her  the  snow  was  full  of  bells 
Of  music  and  delight. 

She  swept  on  her  bewildering  way, 

By  every  pleasure  kiss'd, — 
Making  a  mirth  of  night  and  day ; 
A  brook  all  sparkle  and  all  spray, 

Dancing  itself  to  mist. 

I  love  all  bright  and  happy  things, 

And  joys  which  are  not  brief; 

All  sights  and  sounds  whence  pleasure  springs 

But  weary  of  the  harp  whose  strings 
Are  never  tuned  to  grief. 


PICTURE  FIFTH. 

AMY. 

Round  Amy's  home  were  pleasant  trees — 
A  quiet  summer  space 


"!22  LOVE'S  GALLERY. 

Of  garden  flowers  and  toiling  bees ; 
Below  the  yellow  harvest  leas 

Waved  welcome  to  the  place. 

And  Amy  she  was  very  fair, 

With  eyes  nor  dark  nor  blue ; 
And  in  her  wavy  chestnut  hair 
Were  braided  blossoms,  wild  and  rare, 

Still  shimmering  with  the  dew. 

Her  pride  was  the  unconscious  guise 

Which  to  the  pure  is  given : 
Her  gentle  prudence  broke  to  sighs, 
And  smiles  were  native  to  her  eyes, 
As  are  the  stars  to  heaven. 

Here  love,  said  I,  thy  rest  shall  be, 

Oh,  weary,  world-worn  soul ! 
Long  tossed  upon  this  shifting  sea, 
Behold,  at  last  the  shore  for  thee 

Displays  the  shining  goal. 

Dear  Amy,  lean  above  me  now, 

And  smooth  aside  my  hair, 
And  bless  me  with  thy  tender  vow, 
And  kiss  all  memories  from  my  brow, 
Till  thou  alone  art  there. 


THE  MINERS. 


BURROW,  burrow,  like  the  mole, 
Ye  who  shape  the  columned  caves  1 
Ye  are  black  with  clinging  coal, 
Black  as  fiery  Afric's  slaves  ! 
Sink  the  shadowy  shaft  afar 
Deep  into  our  native  star  ! 
Rend  her  iron  ribs  apart, 
Where  her  hidden  treasures  are, 
Nestled  near  her  burning  heart ! 
Dig,  nor  think  how  forests  grow 
Above  your  heads — how  waters  flow 
Responsive  to  the  song  of  birds — 
How  blossoms  paint  in  silent  words 
What  hearts  may  feel  but  cannot  know  I 


THE   MINERS. 

Dig  ye,  where  no  day  is  seen ; 
Vassals  in  the  train  of  Night, 
Build  the  chambers  for  your  Queen, 
Where  with  starless  locks  she  lies, 
Robbed  of  all  her  bright  disguise ! 
There  no  precious  dews  alight, 
None  but  what  the  cavern  weeps, 
Down  its  scarred  and  dusky  face ! 
There's  no  bird  in  all  the  place ; 
Not  a  simple  flower  ye  mark, 
Not  a  shrub  or  vine  that  creeps 
Through  the  long,  long  Lapland  dark 
Burrow,  burrow,  like  the  mole, 
Dark  of  face,  but  bright  of  soul ! 
Labour  is  not  mean  or  low  ! 
Ye  achieve,  with  every  blow, 
Something  higher  than  ye  know  ! 
Though  your  sight  may  not  extend 
Through  your  labours  to  the  end, 
Every  honest  stroke  ye  give, 
Every  peril  that  ye  brave 
In  the  dark  and  dangerous  cave, 
In  some  future  good  shall  live  ! 


THE  WINNOWER. 


SINGS  a  maiden  by  a  river, 

Sings  and  sighs  alternately ; 
In  my  heart  shall  flow  for  ever, 

Like  a  stream,  her  melody. 
In  her  hair  of  flaxen  hue 

Tend'rest  buds  and  blossoms  gleam; 
And  her  beauty  glows  as  through 

Hazy  splendours  of  a  dream. 
Like  her  melody's  rich  bars — 
Or  a  golden  flood  of  stars, — 
Rustling  like  a  summer  rain, 
Through  her  fingers  falls  the  grain, 


126  THE    WINNOWER. 

Swells  her  voice  in  such  sweet  measure, 
I  must  join  for  very  pleasure; 
But  my  lay  shall  be  of  her, 
Bright  and  lovely  Winnower  ! 

When  her  song  to  laughter  merges, 

Melts  the  music  of  her  tongue, 
Like  a  streamlet's  silver  surges 

Over  golden  pebbles  flung. 
From  her  hands  the  grainless  chaff 

On  the  light  wind  dances  free; 
But  a  sigh  will  check  her  laugh, — 

"  So  much  worthlessness,  ah  me, 
Mingles  with  the  good  I"  saith  she. 
Yet  the  grain  is  fair  to  see. 
Laughter,  like  some  sweet  surprise, 
Lights  again  her  dewy  eyes, 
And  her  song  hath  drowned  her  sighs ; 
Therefore  will  I  sing  of  her, 
Bright  and  lovely  Winnower  ! 

Down  beside  as  fair  a  river 

Sings  the  Maiden  Poesy, 
In  my  heart  shall  flow  for  ever 

Her  undying  melody. 


THE   WINNOWER.  127 

Through  her  rosy  fingers  fall 

Golden  grains  of  richest  thought ; 
While  the  grainless  chaff  is  all 

By  the  scattering  breezes  caught : — 

So  much  worthlessness,  ah  me, 

Mingles  with  the  good  !"  saith  she. 
Yet  the  grain  is  bright  to  see, 
Therefore  laughs  she  merrily  ! 
Laughs  and  sings  in  such  sweet  measure, 
I  must  join  for  very  pleasure — 
While  my  heart  keeps  time  with  her, 
I  will  praise  the  Winnower  ! 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  REALM  OF 
DREAMS. 


"  The  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision." 

OFT  have  I  wandered  through  the  Realm  of  Dreams, 

By  shadowy  mountains  and  clear  running  streams, 

Catching  at  times  strange  transitory  gleams 

Of  Eden  vistas,  glimmering  through  a  haze 

Of  floral  splendour,  where  the  birds,  ablaze 

"With  colour,  streaked  the  air  like  flying  stars, 

With  momentary  bars ; 

And  heard  low  music  breathe  above,  around, 

As  if  the  air  within  itself  made  sound, — 

As  if  the  soul  of  Melody  were  pent 

Within  some  unseen  instrument 


THE   REALM    OF   DREAMS.  129 

Hung  in  a  viewless  tower  of  air, 

And  with  enchanted  pipes  beguiled  its  own  despair. 

But  stranger  than  all  other  dreams  which  led, 

Asleep  or  waking,  my  adventurous  tread, 

Were  these  which  came  of  late  to  me 

Through  fields  of  slumber,  and  did  seem  to  be 

Wrapped  in  an  awful  robe  of  prophecy. 


I  walked  the  woods  of  March,  and  through  the  boughs 

The  earliest  bird  was  calling  to  his  spouse ; 

And  in  the  sheltered  nooks 

Lay  spots  of  snow, 

Or  with  a  noiseless  flow 

Stole  down  into  the  brooks ; 

And  where  the  springtime  sun  had  longest  shone 

The  violet  looked  up  and  found  itself  alone. 

Anon  I  came  unto  a  noisy  river, 

And  felt  the  bridge  beneath  me  sway  and  quiver ; 

Below,  the  hungry  waters  howled  and  hissed, 

And  upward  blew  a  blinding  cloud  of  mist; 

But  there  the  friendly  Iris  built  its  arch, 

And  I  in  safety  took  my  onward  march. 

Now  coming  to  a  mighty  hill, 

Along  the  shelvy  pathway  of  a  rill 


130  THE   REALM    OF   DREAMS. 

Which  danced  itself  to  foam  and  spray, 

I  clomb  my  steady  way. 

It  may  be  that  the  music  of  the  brook 

Gave  me  new  strength — It  may  be  that  I  took 

Fresh  vigour  from  the  mountain  air 

Which  cooled  my  cheek  and  fanned  my  hair ; 

Or  was  it  that  adown  the  breeze 

Came  sounds  of  wondrous  melodies, — 

Strange  sounds  as  of  a  maiden's  voice 

Making  her  mountain  home  rejoice? 

Following  that  sweet  strain,  I  mounted  still 

And  gained  the  highest  hemlocks  of  the  hill, 

Old  guardians  of  a  little  lake,  which  sent 

Adown  the  brook  its  crystal  merriment, 

Blessing  the  valley  where  the  planter  went 

Sowing  the  furrowed  mould  and  whistling  his  content. 

Through  underwood  of  laurel,  and  across 

A  little  lawn  shoe-deep  with  sweetest  moss, 

I  passed,  and  found  the  lake,  which,  like  a  shield 

Some  giant  long  had  ceased  to  wield, 

Lay  with  its  edges  sunk  in  sand  and  stone, 

With  ancient  roots  and  grasses  overgrown ; 

But  far  more  beautiful  and  rare 

Than  any  strange  device  that  e'er 

Glittered  upon  the  azure  field 

Of  ancient  warrior's  polished  shield, 


THE   REALM   OF   DREAMS.  131 

Was  the  fair  vision  which  did  lie 

Embossed  upon  the  burnished  lake, 

And  in  its  sweet  repose  did  make 

A  second  self  that  sang  to  the  inverted  sky. 

Not  she  who  lay  on  banks  of  Thornless  flowers 

Ere  stole  the  serpent  into  Eden's  bowers; 

Not  she  who  rose  from  Neptune's  deep  abodes, 

The  wonder  of  Olympian  G-ods } 

Nor  all  the  fabled  nymphs  of  wood  or  stream 

Which  blest  the  Arcadian's  dream, 

Could  with  that  floating  form  compare, 

Lying  with  her  golden  harp  and  hair 

Bright  as  a  cloud  in  the  sunset  air. 

Her  tresses  gleamed  with  many  stars, 

And  on  her  forehead  one,  like  Mars, 

A  lovely  crown  of  light  dispread 

Around  her  shining  head. 

And  now  she  touched  her  harp  and  sung 

Strange  songs  in  a  forgotten  tongue ; 

And  as  my  spirit  heard,  it  seemed 

To  feel  what  it  had  lived  or  dreamed 

In  other  worlds  beyond  our  skies, — 

In  ancient  spheres  of  Paradise ; 

And  as  I  gazed  upon  her  face, 

It  seemed  that  I  could  dimly  trace 


32  THE   REALM   OF   DREAMS. 

Dear  lineaments  long  lost  of  yore 

Upon  some  uuremembered  shore, 

Beyond  an  old  and  infinite  sea, 

In  the  realm  of  an  unknown  century. 

For  very  joy  I  clapped  my  hands, 

And  leaped  upon  the  nearer  sands ! — 

A  moment,  and  the  maiden  glanced 

Upon  me  where  I  stood  entranced ;     - 

Then  noiselessly  as  moonshine  falls 

Adown  the  ocean's  crystal  walls, 

And  with  no  stir  or  wave  attended, 

Slowly  through  the  lake  descended ; 

Till  from  her  hidden  form  below 

The  waters  took  a  golden  glow, 

As  if  the  star  which  made  her  forehead  bright 

Had  burst  and  filled  the  lake  with  light ! 

Long  standing  there  I  watched  in  vain, — 

The  vision  would  not  rise  again. 


Again,  in  sleep,  I  walked  by  singing  streams, 

And  it  was  May-day  in  my  Realm  of  Dreams  :- 

The  flowering  pastures  and  the  trees 

Were  full  of  noisy  birds  and  bees; 

And  swinging  roses,  like  sweet  censers,  went, 

The  village  children  making  merriment, 


THE   REALM  OF  DREAMS.  133 

Followed  by  older  people ; — as  they  passed 

One  beckoned,  and  I  joined  the  last. 

We  crossed  the  meadow,  crossed  the  brook, 

And  through  the  scented  woodland  took 

Our  happy  way,  until  we  found 

An  open  space  of  vernal  ground; 

And  there  around  the  flowery  pole 

I  joined  the  joyous  throng  and  sang  with  all  my  soul ! 

But  when  the  little  ones  had  crowned  their  queen, 

And  danced  their  mazes  to  the  wooded  scene 

To  hunt  the  honeysuckles,  and  carouse 

Under  the  spice-wood  boughs, — 

I  turned,  and  saw  with  wondering  eye 

A  maiden  in  a  bower  near  by 

Wreathed  with  unknown  blossoms,  such  as  bloom 

In  orient  isles  with  wonderful  perfume. 

And  she  was  very  beautiful  and  bright ; 

And  in  her  face  was  much  of  that  strange  light 

Which  on  the  mountain  lake  had  blessed  my  sight; 

Her  speech  was  like  the  echo  of  that  song 

Which  on  the  hill-side  made  me  strong. 

Now  with  a  wreath,  now  with  a  coin  she  played, 

Pursuing  a  most  marvellous  trade — 

Buying  the  lives  of  young  and  old, 

Some  with  Fame,  and  some  with  gold ! 


134  THE    REALM    OF   DREAMS. 

And  there  with  trembling  steps  I  came, 

But  ere  I  asked  for  gold  or  fame, 

Or  ere  I  could  announce  my  name 

The  wreath  fell  withered  from  her  head, 

And  from  her  face  the  mask  was  shed ; 

Her  mantle  dropped — and  lo  !  the  morning  sun 

Looked  on  me  through  a  nameless  skeleton  ! 

Again  I  stood  within  the  Realm  of  Dreams, 

At  midnight,  on  a  huge  and  shadowy  tower ; 

And  from  the  east  the  full  moon  shed  her  beams, 

And  from  the  sky  a  wild  meteoric  shower 

Startled  the  darkness ;  and  the  night 

Was  full  of  ominous  voices  and  strange  light, 

Like  to  a  madman's  brain  ; — below 

Prophetic  tongues  proclaiming  woe 

Echoed  the  sullen  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  the  neighbouring  shore ; 

And  in  the  west  a  forest  caught  the  sound, 

And  bore  it  to  its  utmost  bound. 

And  then,  for  hours,  all  stood  as  to  behold 

Some  great  event  by  mighty  seers  foretold ; 

And  all  the  while  the  moon  above  the  sea 

Grew  strangely  large  and  red, — and  suddenly, 

Followed  by  a  myriad  stars, 

Swung  at  one  sweep  into  the  western  sky, 


THE   REALM    OF   DREAMS.  135 

And,  widening  with  a  melancholy  roar, 
Broke  to  a  hundred  flaming  bars, 
Grating  the  heavens  as  with  a  dungeon  door. 
Then  to  that  burning  gate 
A  radiant  spirit  came,  and  through  the  grate 
Smiled  till  I  knew  the  Angel,  Fate ! 
And  in  its  hand  a  golden  key  it  bore 
To  open  that  celestial  door. 
Sure,  I  beheld  that  angel  thrice ; 
Twice  met  on  earth,  it  mocked  me  twice ; 
But  now  behind  those  bars  it  beamed 
Such  love  as  I  had  never  dreamed, 
Smiling  my  prisoned  soul  to  peace 
With  eyes  that  promised  quick  release ; 
And  looks  thus  spake  to  looks,  where  lips  on  earth  were 
dumb, 

"  Behold,  behold  the  hour  is  come  !" 


"COME,  GENTLE  TREMBLER." 


COME,  gentle  trembler,  come — for  see, 
Our  hearths  have  lost  their  native  fires ; 

The  vacant  world  invites  us, — we 

Must  go  the  heirless  heirs  of  countless  sires. 

Let  us  away,  the  wild  wolfs  home 

Were  not  so  desolate  as  ours ; 
Beside  the  singing  brooks  we'll  roam, 

And  seek  a  sweet  community  of  flowers. 

Here  are  the  dwellings  whence  the  few 
We  loved,  departed ;  where  they  lead 

We  follow — these  their  tombs } — but  who 

Shall  write  our  epitaphs,  and  who  shall  read  ? 


"COME,    GENTLE   TREMBLER."  137 

Hark,  how  the  light  winds  flow  and  ebb 

Along  the  open  halls  forlorn ; 
See  how  the  spider's  dusty  web 

Floats  at  the  casement,  tenantless  and  torn ! 

The  old,  old  Sea,  as  one  in  tears, 

Comes  murmuring  with  its  foamy  lips, 

And  knocking  at  the  vacant  piers, 

Calls  for  its  long-lost  multitude  of  ships. 

Against  the  stone-ribbed  wharf,  one  hull 
Throbs  to  its  ruin  like  a  breaking  heart : 

Oh,  come,  my  breast  and  brain  are  full 

Of  sad  response — Let  Silence  keep  the  mart ! 


THE  FROZEN  GOBLET. 


THE  night  was  dark,  the  winds  were  loud, 
The  storm  hung  low  in  a  swinging  cloud ; 
The  blaze  on  my  chamber  lamp  was  dim, 
And  athwart  my  brain  began  to  swim 
Those  visions  that  only  swim  and  sweep 
Under  the  wavering  wings  of  sleep  : — 
And  suddenly  into  my  presence  came 
A  Spectre,  thin  as  that  dismal  flame 
That  burns  and  beams,  a  moving  lamp, 
Where  the  dreary  fogs  of  night  encamp. 


THE   FROZEN   GOBLET.  139 

Her  lips  were  pale,  her  cheeks  were  white, 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  phantom  light — 

Once,  twice,  thrice, 
A  goblet  wrought  to  a  rare  device 
She  held  to  fevered  lips  of  mine ; 
But  mocked  them  with  its  frozen  wine, 
Till  they  were  numb  on  the  dusky  ice. 


I  could  not  speak,  I  could  not  stir, 

I  could  do  nought  but  look  at  her ; 

Nought  but  look  in  her  wonderful  eyes, 

And  lose  me  in  their  mysteries. 

The  goblet  shone,  the  goblet  glowed, 

But  from  its  rim  no  liquid  flowed. 

Its  sides  were  bright  with  pictures  rare 

Of  demons  foul  and  angels  fair, 

And  Life  and  Death  o'er  Youth  contending, 

And  Love  on  luminous  wings  descending, 

Celestial  cities  with  golden  domes, 

And  caverns  full  of  labouring  gnomes. 

Once,  twice,  thrice, 
That  goblet  wrought  to  a  rare  device 
She  held  to  fevered  lips  of  mine, 
But  mocked  them  with  its  frozen  wine, 
Till  they  were  numb  on  the  dusky  ice. 


140  THE   FROZEN    GOBLET. 

Loud  rang  the  bell  through  the  stormy  air, 

And  the  clock  replied  on  the  shadowy  stair, 

And  Chanticleer  awoke  and  flung 

The  echo  from  its  silvery  tongue. 

All  nature  with  a  sudden  noise 

Proclaimed  the  momentary  poise 

Of  that  invisible  beam,  that  weighs 

At  midnight  the  divided  days. 

The  Phantom  beckoned  and  turned  away, 

I  had  no  power  to  speak  or  stay : — 

Wo  passed  the  dusky  corridor, 

Her  sandal  gems  illumed  the  floor, 

And  with  a  ruddy,  phosphor  light, 

The  frozen  goblet  lit  the  night. 

Once,  twice,  thrice, 
That  goblet  wrought  to  a  rare  device 
She  held  to  fevered  lips  of  mine, 
But  mocked  them  with  its  frozen  wine, 
Till  they  were  numb  on  the  dusky  ice. 

She  led  me  through  enchanted  woods, 
Through  deep  and  haunted  solitudes, 
By  threatening  cataracts,  and  the  edges 
Of  high  and  dizzy  mountain  ledges, 


THE   FROZEN    GOBLET.  141 

And  over  bleak  and  perilous  ridges, 
To  frail  and  air -suspended  bridges, 
Where,  in  the  muffled  dark  beneath, 
Invisible  rivers  talked  of  death, 
Until,  for  very  sympathy 
With  the  unfathomed  mystery, 
I  cried,  "  Here  I  resign  my  breath, 
Here  let  me  taste  the  cup  of  Death  1" 

Once,  twice,  thrice, 
That  goblet  wrought  to  a  rare  device 
She  held  again  to  lips  of  mine, 
But  mocked  them  with  its  frozen  wine, 
Till  they  were  numb  on  the  dusky  ice. 

And  then  a  voice  within  me  said, 
"  Wouldst  thou  journey  to  the  dead? — 
Shed  this  mantle,  and  pass  for  ever 
Into  the  black,  eternal  river  ? — 
For  very  sympathy,  depart 
From  the  tumult  of  this  heart  ? 
Know'st  thou  not  that  mightier  river, 
Rolling  on  in  darkness  ever, 
Ever  sweeping,  coiling,  boiling, 
Howling,  fretting,  wailing,  toiling, 
Where  every  wave  that  breaks  on  shore 
Is  a  human  heart  that  can  bear  no  more  ?" 


142  THE   FROZEN    GOBLET. 

Once,  twice,  thrice, 
That  goblet  wrought  to  a  rare  device 
She  held  to  fevered  lips  of  mine, 
But  mocked  them  with  the  frozen  wine, 
Till  they  were  numb  on  the  dusky  ice. 

And  then  in  sorrow  and  shame  I  cried, 
"  Oh,  take  me  to  that  river's  side, 
And  I  will  shun  the  languid  shore, 
And  plunge  me  into  the  dark  uproar, 
And  drink  of  the  waters  till  they  impart 
A  generous  sense,  and  a  human  heart." 
And  all  at  once,  around  me  rose 
A  mingled  mutiny  of  woes, 
And  my  soul  discerned  these  sounds  to  be 
The  wail  of  a  wide  humanity ; 
Till  my  bosom  heaved  responsive  sighs, 
And  tremulous  tears  were  in  my  eyes. 

Once,  twice,  thrice, 
That  goblet  wrought  to  a  rare  device 
She  held  to  fevered  lips  of  mine, 
And  at  their  instant  touch,  the  wine 
Flowed  freely  from  the  dusky  ice. 

I  drank  new  life,  I  could  not  stop, 
But  drained  it  to  its  latest  drop, 


THE    FROZEN    GOBLET.  143 

Till  the  Phantom  with  the  goblet  rare 

Dissolved  into  the  shadowy  air — 

Dissolved  into  the  outer  gloom, 

And  once  more  I  was  in  my  room; 

Yet  oft  before  my  waking  eyes 

The  figures  of  that  goblet  rise — 

The  angels  and  the  fiends  at  strife, 

And  Youth  'twixt  warring  Death  and  Life 

The  domes — the  gnomes— mysterious  things  1 
And  Love  descending  on  bright  wings. 

Once,  twice,  thrice, 
That  goblet  wrought  to  a  rare  device 
Fair  Memory  holds  to  lips  of  mine, 
And  bathes  them  with  the  sacred  wine 
The  tribute  of  that  dusky  ice. 


-  ws  -^   C1  t  *P   V 

IVEB.SI  *  *  j 

/-^  TT1  ^    ^-^'      / 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  HEART. 


THE  heart  is  a  city  teeming  with  life — 
Through  all  its  gay  avenues,  rife 

With  gladness 
And  innocent  madness, 
Bright  beings  are  passing  along, 
Too  fleeting  and  fair  for  the  eye  to  behold, 

While  something  of  Paradise  sweetens  their  song, 
They  are  gliding  away  with  their  wild  gushing  ditty, 

Out  of  the  city, 
Out  of  the  beautiful  gates  of  gold  ! 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   HEART.  145 

Through  gates  that  are  ringing 

While  to  and  fro  swinging, 
Swinging  and  ringing  ceaselessly, 
Like  delicate  hands  that  are  clapped  in  glee, 
Beautiful  hands  of  infancy ! 


The  heart  is  a  city — and  gay  are  the  feet 
That  dance  along 
To  the  joyous  beat 

Of  the  timbrel  that  giveth  a  pulse  to  song. 
Bright  creatures  enwreathed 

With  flowers  and  mirth, 
Fair  maidens  bequeathed 

With  the  glory  of  earth 

Sweep  through  the  long  street,  and  singing  await, 
A  moment  await  at  the  wonderful  gate ; 
Every  second  of  time  there  comes  to  depart 
Some  form  that  no  more  shall  revisit  the  heart  1 
They  are  gliding  away  and  breathing  farewell — 
How  swiftly  they  pass 
Through  the  gates  of  brass, 
Through  gates  that  are  ringing 
While  to  and  fro  swinging. 

And  making  deep  sounds,  like  the  half-stifled  swell 
Of  the  far-away  ring  of  a  gay  marriage  bell ! 
10 


146  THE   CITY   OF   THE   HEART. 

The  heart  is  a  city  with  splendour  bedight, 
Where  tread  martial  armies  arrayed  for  the  fight, 

Under  banner-hung  arches, 

To  war-kindling  marches, 

To  the  fife  and  the  rattle 
Of  drums,  with  gay  colours  unfurled, 

On,  eager  for  battle, 
To   smite    their    bright   spears  on  the   spears   of   the 

world ! 
Through  noontime,  through  midnight,  list,  and  thou'lt 

hear 
The  gates  swing  in  front,  then  clang  in  the  rear. 

Like  a  bright  river  flowing, 

The  war  host  is  going, 

And  like  to  that  river, 

Returning,  ah  never ! 
Through  daylight  and  darkness  low  thunder  is  heard 

From  the  city  that  flings 

Her  iron-wrought  wings, 
Flapping  the  air  like  the  wings  of  a  bird ! 


The  heart  is  a  city — how  sadly  and  slow, 

To  and  fro, 
Covered  with  rust,  the  solemn  gates  go  1 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   HEART.  147 

With  meek  folded  palms, 

With  heads  bending  lowly, 

Strange  beings  pass  slowly, 
Through  the  dull  avenues  chanting  their  psalms; 
Sighing  and  mourning,  they  follow  the  dead 
Out  of  the  gates  that  fall  heavy  as  lead — 
Passing,  how  sadly,  with  echoless  tread, 

The  last  one  is  fled  ! 

No  more  to  be  opened,  the  gates  softly  close, 
And  shut  in  a  stranger  who  loves  the  repose ; 
With  no  sigh  for  the  past,  with  no  countenance  of  pity, 
He  spreads  his  black  flag  o'er  the  desolate  city  1 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  NAPLES. 


THE  music  of  the  marriage  bell 

Woke  all  the  morning  air  to  pleasure, 

And  breasts  there  were  that  rose  and  fell 

To  the  delightful  measure. 

Oh,  well  it  were  if  they  might  hear  alway 

The  music  of  their  nuptial  day 

Flowing,  as  o'er  enchanted  lakes  and  streams 

Out  of  the  land  of  dreams — 

Sweet  sounds  that  melt  but  never  cease, 

Dropped  from  celestial  bells  of  peace. 

Oh,  well  it  were  if  those  rare  bridal  flowers 

Had  drunken  deep  of  life's  perpetual  dews, 


THE   BEGGAR   OF   NAPLES.  149 

Had  drunken  of  those  charmed  showers 

For  ever  falling  in  ambrosial  hues 

Through  the  far  loving  skies, 

Beyond  the  flaming  walls  of  long-lost  Paradise ; 

Or  grown  beside  that  fabled  river 

Where  it  is  spring-time  ever ; 

Where,  when  the  aged  pilgrim  stooped  and  drank, 

He  rose  again  upon  that  primrose  bank 

In  all  the  bloom  of  youth  to  bloom  for  ever. 

Ah,  well  for  Beauty's  transient  bowers 

If  they  might  bud  and  blow  in  life's  autumnal  hours  : — 

For  she,  who  wore  that  bridal  wreath 

Was  Naples'  noblest  child ; 

The  fairest  maid  that  e'er  beguiled 

An  Abbot  of  a  prayerful  breath. 

And  he  who  rode  beside  her  there 

Was  Fame  and  Fortune's  richest  heir ; 

One  who  had  come  from  foreign  realms  afar 

To  dazzle  like  a  new-discovered  star. 

Yet  as  they  passed  between  the  crowd 

He  looked  not  scornfully  nor  proud, 

But  to  the  beggars  thronging  every  side 

Scattered  the  golden  coin  in  plenteous  rain, 

And  smiled  to  see  their  joy  insane. 

And  passing,  thus  addressed  the  bride  : — 


150  THE   BEGGAR   OF   NAPLES. 

"  The  merry  bells  make  music  sweet, 

But  never  to  the  beggar's  ear 

Fell  music  half  so  sweet  and  clear 

As  the  chime  of  gold  when  it  strikes  the  street 

It  drives  their  hearts  to  swifter  swinging, 

And  fills  their  brains  with  gladder  ringing 

Than  ever  bells  will  swing  or  ring, 

Even  though  the  sturdy  sacristan 

Should  labour  the  very  best  he  can 

To  chime  for  the  wedding  of  a  king. 

Such  sights  to  me  will  always  bring 

The  story  of  a  beggar,  who 

Perchance  has  ofttimes  begged  of  you ; 

And  here  the  tale  may  well  be  told, 

To  while  away  this  idle  gait 

That  keeps  us  from  our  happy  fate : 

For  time  is  very  lame  and  old 

Whene'er  the  surly  graybeard  brings 

A  prayed-for  pleasure  on  his  wings ; 

But  robbing  us  of  a  joy  can  flee 

As  fleet  of  foot  as  Mercury. 

"  Avoiding  every  wintry  shade, 
The  lazzaroni  crawled  to  sunny  spots, — 
At  every  corner  miserable  knots 
Pursued  their  miserable  trade ; 


THE   BEGGAR   OF   NAPLES.  151 

And  held  the  sunshine  in  their  asking  palms, 

Which  gave  unthanked  its  glowing  alms, 

Thawing  the  blood  until  it  ran 

As  wine  within  a  vintage  runs. 

And  there  was  one  among  that  begging  clan, 

One  of  Italians  listless  dreamy  sons, 

A  native  Neapolitan — 

A  boy  whose  cheeks  had  drawn  their  olive  tan 

From  fifteen  summer  suns. 

Long  had  he  stood  with  naked  feet 

Upon  the  lava  of  the  street, 

With  shadowy  eyes  cast  down, 

Making  neither  a  smile  nor  frown, 

And  in  the  crowd  he  stood  alone, 

Alone  with  empty  hanging  hands, 

And  through  his  brain  the  idle  dreams 

Slid  down  like  idle  sands; 

Or  hung  like  mists  o'er  sleeping  streams 

In  uninhabitable  lands. 

To  him,  I  ween,  the  same, 

All  seasons  went  and  came 

Nor  did  ambition's  pomp  and  show 

Disturb  his  fancy's  tranquil  flow ; 

For,  like  the  blossom  of  the  soil, 

Existence  was  his  only  toil. 


152  THE   BEGGAR   OF   NAPLES. 

"  One  morn  (the  bells  had  summoned  all  to  mass) 

He  knelt  before  the  old  cathedral  door — 

At  such  a  place  the  wealthier  who  pass 

Will  throw  a  pious  pittance  to  the  poor, 

Who  kneel  with  face  demure, 

With  their  mute  eyes  and  hands  saying  their  <  alas  1' 

Oh,  beautiful  it  was  to  see  him  there, 

Looking  his  wordless  prayer, 

With  solemn  head  depressed, 

And  hands  laid  crosswise  on  his  breast, — 

Such  figures  saw  Murillo  in  his  dream, 

The  painter  and  the  pride  of  Spain ; 

With  such  he  made  his  living  canvas  gleam, 

As  canvas  touched  by  man  may  never  gleam  again. 

"  Upon  the  beggar's  heart  the  matin  hymn 

Fell  faint  and  dim 

As  when  upon  some  margin  of  the  sea 

The  fisher  breathes  the  briny  air, 

And  hears  the  far  waves'  symphony, 

But  hears  it  unaware. 

The  music  from  the  lofty  aisle, 

And  all  the  splendour  of  the  sacred  pile,— 

The  pictures  hung  at  intervals 

Like  windows,  giving  from  the  walls 


THE   BEGGAR   OF   NAPLES.  153 

Clear  glimpses  of  the  days  agone, 

From  that  blest  hour  when  over  Bethlehem  shone 

The  shepherd's  Star,  until  that  darker  time 

When  groaned  the  earth  aloud  with  agony  sublime  :— 

All  were  unheeded, 

And  came,  but  as  his  breath ; 

Or  if  there  came  a  thought,  that  thought  unheeded 

Even  in  its  birth  met  death. 

The  names  of  Kaphael, — Angelo, — Lorraine, — 

Da  Vinci, — Roso, — Titian, — and  the  rest, 

Are  sounds  to  thrill  the  Italian's  soul  and  brain 

With  all  the  impulse  native  to  his  breast ; 

And  Dante, — Petrarch, — these  are  mighty  names 

The  meanest  tongue  with  a  true  pride  proclaims ; 

And  Ariosto's  song  a  loved  bequest  j 

And  Tasso's  sung  by  all — by  all  is  loved  and  blest. 

But  what  cared  he,  the  sunburnt  beggar-boy  ? 

All  these  bequeathed  no  other  joy 

Than  did  the  silent  stars, 

Or  morn  or  evening  with  their  golden  bars, 

Or  the  great  azure  arch  of  day, 

Or  his  own  bright,  unrivalled  bay, 

Or  old  Vesuvius'  deathless  flames — 

And  these  to  him  alone  were  empty  sights  and  names. 

* 

11  Few  were  there  who  did  any  alms  bestow, 
For  few  will  hear  accustomed  sounds  of  woe  j 


154  THE   BEGGAR   OF   NAPLES. 

Yet  there  was  one  among  that  few 

Who  but  a  moment  stopped, 

And  in  the  beggar's  hands  the  silver  dropped, 

And  shed  the  benediction  of  her  smile. 

Such  smile  as  hers  might  well  renew 

A  heart  to  its  lost  light,  and  might  beguile 

The  shadow  of  a  mourner's  hour ; 

Such  smiles  are  like  the  blessed  dew 

By  evening  shed  upon  a  wayside  flower, 

Sinking  to   the   heart   of  hearts   with   a   miraculous 

power. 

The  earliest  primrose  of  the  spring, 
Which  at  the  brook-side  suddenly  in  sight 
Gleams  like  a  water  sprite ; 
And  the  first  herald  bird  on  southern  wing, 
Chanting  his  wild,  enthusiastic  rhyme 
About  the  summer  time — 
Wake  in  the  soul  an  instant,  deep  delight  I 
But  there  are  eyes  whose  first  sweet  look 
Outshines  the  primrose  by  the  brook ; 
And  there  are  lips  whose  simplest  words 
Outrival  even  the  spring-time  birds. 
Ah,  well,  I  ween,  the  beggar  felt  their  power, 
And  wore  them  in  his  heart  from  that  bright  hour. 
She  passed— a  maiden  very  young  and  fair, 
Of  an  illustrious  house  the  pride  and  heir  j 


THE   BEGGAR   OF   NAPLES.  155 

She  passed — but  ah,  she  left 

The  miserable  boy  bereft ! — 

Bereft  of  all  that  quiet  which  had  lain 

Like  a  low  mist  within  his  brain, — 

The  idle  fogs  of  some  rank  weedy  isle 

Hanging  on  the  breezeless  atmosphere, 

Over  a  miasmatic  mere ; — 

All  this  the  beauty  of  her  smile 

Had  blown  into  a  storm  that  would  not  rest  again. 

At  once  upstarting  from  his  knees, 

He  watched  her  as  she  went ; 

The  blood  awakened  from  its  slothful  ease, 

Through  all  his  frame  a  naming  flood  was  sent. 

He  stood  as  with  a  statue's  fixed  surprise, 

Great  wonder  making  marble  in  his  eyes  ! 

She,  like  a  morn,  had  dawned  upon  his  soul ; 

And  now  he  saw  the  marvellous  whole 

Of  that  mysterious  land, 

And  felt  a  sense  of  awe  as  they  who  stand 

For  the  first  time  upon  an  alien  strand, — 

Some  sailor  of  a  foreign  sea, 

Who,  from  the  smooth  waves  swinging  lazily, 

Is  thrown  upon  a  shore 

Where  life  is  full  of  noise  and  strife  for  evermore 

He  stood  awake  !  and  suddenly  there  burst 


156  THE   BEGGAR   OF   NAPLES. 

The  music  of  the  organ  on  his  brain, 

And  into  every  sense  athirst 

Dispensed  a  welcome  rain. 

Now  that  his  soul  had  passed  from  its  eclipse, 

All  things  at  once  became  a  glorious  show ; 

Now  could  he  see  the  sainted  pictures  glow ; 

And  instantly  unto  his  lips 

Rolled  fragments  of  old  song — 

Fragments  which  had  been  thrown 

Into  his  heart  unknown, 

And  buried  there  had  lain  in  silence  deep  and  long. 

"  He  saw  his  fellows  kneel  where  he  had  knelt 

With  tattered  garb  and  supplicating  air ; 

And  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt 

How  mean  was  his  attire,  and  that  his  feet  were  bare. 

He  sighed  and  bit  his  lips,  and  passed  away ; 

And  from  that  day, 

His  fellows  idly  as  before, 

Without  a  hope,  without  a  care, 

Stood  clustered  in  the  sunny  air, 

But  there  the  beggar  boy  was  seen  no  more. 

"  His  childhood,  like  a  dry  and  sandy  bar, 
Lay  all  behind  him  as  he  hurled 


THE   BEGGAR   OF   NAPLES.  157 

His  soul's  hot  bark  to  sea,  and  wide  unfurled 

The  straining  sail  upon  a  billowy  world. 

And  now  he  joined  the  sacred  fleet  afar, 

And  'mid  tempestuous  waves  of  war 

Defied  the  Saracen  and  Death, 

And  won  the  warrior's  laurel  wreath, 

And  gave  his  beggar  name  to  Fame's  industrious  breath 

"  Years  came  and  went,  and  no  one  missed  the  boy, 

Nor  wept  his  long  farewell; 

They  little  guessed  how  much  their  joy 

Was  of  his  deeds  to  tell. 

And  when  he  knew  his  native  town 

Had  learned  to  talk  of  his  renown, 

The  youth  a  bearded  man  returned; 

And  more  than  for  renown  he  yearned 

To  see  that  blessed  smile  again 

"Which  erst  made  beauty  in  his  brain, 

And  ever  in  the  van  of  war 

Had  shown  a  most  propitious  star. 

He  came,  and  she  of  whom  he  long  had  dreamed 

With  hopes  which  nought  could  e'er  destroy, 

In  brighter  beauty  on  him  beamed, 

And  blessed  him  with  a  deeper  joy ; 

Even  she,  the  noblest  lady  of  the  land, 

Bestowed  on  him  her  virgin  hand ! 


158  THE  BEGGAR  OF  NAPLES. 

Ah,  sure  it  was  the  fairest  alms 
That  ever  blessed  a  beggar's  palms  ! 

"  To  him  the  chime  which  filled  the  skies 

Upon  his  nuptial  morn, 

When  down  the  loving  breezes  borne, 

Did  seem  to  be  by  angels  rung 

From  silver  bells  of  Paradise, 

In  golden  turrets  hung. 

And  she,  who  woke  the  boy  to  man, 

As  little  dreamed,  I  guess,  as  now, 

My  gentle  lady,  as  dost  thou, 

How  proud  she  was  to  wed  that  barefoot  Neapolitan." 


THE   BRICKMAKER. 


LET  the  blinded  horse  go  round 
Till  the  yellow  clay  be  ground, 
And  no  weary  arms  be  folded 
Till  the  mass  to  brick  be  moulded. 

In  no  stately  structures  skilled, 
What  the  temple  we  would  build  ? 
Now  the  massive  kiln  is  risen — 
Call  it  palace — call  it  prison; 
View  it  well :  from  end  to  end 
Narrow  corridors  extend, — 


160  THE   BRICKMAKER. 

Long,  and  dark,  and  smothered  aisles : 
Choke  its  earthly  vaults  with  piles 

Of  the  resinous  yellow  pine ; 
Now  thrust  in  the  fettered  fire — 
Hearken  !  how  he  stamps  with  ire, 

Treading  out  the  pitchy  wine ; 
Wrought  anon  to  wilder  spells 

Hear  him  shout  his  loud  alarms ; 

See  him  thrust  his  glowing  arms 
Through  the  windows  of  his  cells. 

But  his  chains  at  last  shall  sever; 
Slavery  lives  not  for  ever ; 
And  the  thickest  prison  wall 
Into  ruin  yet  must  fall; 
Whatsoever  falls  away 
Springeth  up  again,  they  say ; 
Then,  when  this  shall  break  asunder, 
And  the  fire  be  freed  from  under, 
Tell  us  what  imperial  thing 
From  the  ruin  shall  upspring  ? 

There  shall  grow  a  stately  building, 
Airy  dome  and  columned  walls ; 

Mottoes  writ  in  richest  gilding 
Blazing  through  its  pillared  halls. 


THE   BRICKMAKER.  i\  V   •  161 

Vv 

In  those  chambers,  stern  and  dreaded, 
They,  the  mighty  ones,  shall  stand ; 

There  shall  sit  the  hoary -headed 
Old  defenders  of  the  land. 

There  shall  mighty  words  be  spoken, 
Which  shall  thrill  a  wondering  world ; 

Then  shall  ancient  bonds  be  broken, 
And  new  banners  be  unfurled. 


But  anon  those  glorious  uses 

In  these  chambers  shall  lie  dead, 

And  the  world's  antique  abuses, 
Hydra-headed,  rise  instead. 

But  this  wrong  not  long  shall  linger- 
The  old  capitol  must  fall ; 

For,  behold  !  the  fiery  finger 
Flames  along  the  fated  wall ! 

II. 

Let  the  blinded  horse  go  round 
Till  the  yellow  clay  be  ground, 


11 


162  THE   BRICKMAKER. 

And  no  weary  arms  be  folded 
Till  the  mass  to  brick  be  moulded — 
Till  the  heavy  walls  be  risen, 
And  the  fire  is  in  his  prison : 
But  when  break  the  walls  asunder, 
And  the  fire  is  freed  from  under, 
Say  again  what  stately  thing 
From  the  ruin  shall  upspring  ? 


There  shall  grow  a  church  whose  steeple 
To  the  heavens  shall  aspire ; 

And  shall  come  the  mighty  people 
To  the  music  of  the  choir. 


On  the  infant,  robed  in  whiteness, 
Shall  baptismal  waters  fall, 

While  the  child's  angelic  brightness 
Sheds  a  halo  over  all. 


There  shall  stand  enwreathed  in  marriage 
Forms  that  tremble — hearts  that  thrill — 

To  the  door  Death's  sable  carriage 

Shall  bring  forms  and  hearts  grown  still ! 


THE   BRICKMAKEE.  163 

Decked  in  garments  richly  glistening, 
Rustling  wealth  shall  walk  the  aisle ; 

And  the  poor  without  stand  listening, 
Praying  in  their  hearts  the  while. 


There  the  veteran  shall  come  weekly 
With  his  cane,  oppressed  and  poor, 

'Mid  the  horses  standing  meekly, 
Gazing  through  the  open  door. 


But  these  wrongs  not  long  shall  lingo 
The  presumptuous  pile  must  fall j 

For,  behold  !  the  fiery  finger 
Flames  along  the  fated  wall  I 


m. 

Let  the  blinded  horse  go  round 
Till  the  yellow  clay  be  ground ; 
And  no  weary  arms  be  folded 
Till  the  mass  to  brick  be  moulded- 
Say  again  what  stately  thing 
From  the  ruin  shall  upspring  ? 


164  THE   BRICKMAKER. 

Not  the  hall  with  columned  chambers, 
Starred  with  words  of  liberty, 

Where  the  freedom-canting  members 
Feel  no  impulse  of  the  free ; 

Not  the  pile  where  souls  in  error 

Hear  the  words,  "  Go,  sin  no  more  I" 

But  a  dusky  thing  of  terror, 
With  its  cells  and  grated  door. 

To  its  inmates  each  to-morrow 
Shall  bring  in  no  tide  of  joy. 

Born  in  darkness  and  in  sorrow 
There  shall  stand  the  fated  boy. 

With  a  grief  too  loud  to  smother, 
With  a  throbbing,  burning  head — 

There  shall  groan  some  desperate  mother, 
Nor  deny  the  stolen  bread  ! 

There  the  veteran,  a  poor  debtor, 
Marked  with  honourable  scars, 

Listening  to  some  clanking  fetter, 
Shall  gaze  idly  through  the  bars  : 


THE   BRICKMAKER.  165 

Shall  gaze  idly,  not  demurring, 

Though  with  thick  oppression  bowed ; 

While  the  many,  doubly  erring, 

Shall  walk  honoured  through  the  crowd. 

Yet  these  wrongs  not  long  shall  linger — 

The  benighted  pile  must  fall ; 
For,  behold  !  the  fiery  finger 

Flames  along  the  fated  wall  1 


IV. 

Let  the  blinded  horse  go  round 
Till  the  yellow  clay  be  ground ; 
And  no  weary  arms  be  folded 
Till  the  mass  to  brick  be  moulded- 
Till  the  heavy  walls  be  risen 
And  the  fire  is  in  his  prison. 
Capitol,  and  church,  and  jail, 
Like  our  kiln  at  last  shall  fail ; 
Every  shape  of  earth  shall  fade ; 
But  the  Heavenly  Temple  made 
For  the  sorely  tried  and  pure, 
With  its  Builder  shall  endure  ! 


SONG  FOR  A  SABBATH  MORNING. 


ARISE,  ye  nations,  with  rejoicing  rise, 
And  tell  your  gladness  to  the  listening  skies ; 
Come  out  forgetful  of  the  week's  turmoil, 
From  halls  of  mirth  and  iron  gates  of  toil ; 
Come  forth,  come  forth,  and  let  your  joy  increase 
Till  one  loud  paean  hails  the  day  of  peace. 
Sing,  trembling  age,  ye  youths  and  maidens  sing ; 
Ring,  ye  sweet  chimes,  from  every  belfry  ring ; 
Pour  the  grand  anthem  till  it  soars  and  swells, 
And  heaven  seems  full  of  great  aerial  bells ! 


BONG  FOR  A  SABBATH  MORNING.       167 

Behold  the  Morn  from  orient  chambers  glide*, 

With  shining  footsteps,  like  a  radiant  bride ; 

The  gladdened  brooks  proclaim  her  on  the  hills, 

And  every  grove  with  choral  welcome  thrills. 

Rise,  ye  sweet  maidens,  strew  her  path  with  flowers, 

With  sacred  lilies  from  your  virgin  bowers ; 

Go,  youths,  and  meet  her  with  your  olive  boughs; 

Go,  age,  and  greet  her  with  your  holiest  vows ; — 

See  where  she  comes,  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 

The  sainted  Sabbath  comes,  and  smiles  the  world  to  rest. 


THE  NAMELESS. 


COME  fill,  my  merry  friends,  to-night, 

And  let  the  winds  unheeded  blow, 
And  we  will  wake  the  deep  delight 

Which  true  hearts  only  know. 
And  ere  the  passing  wine  be  done, 

Come  drink  to  those  most  fair  and  dear, 
And  I  will  pledge  a  cup  to  one 

Who  shall  be  nameless  here. 

Come  fill,  nor  let  the  flagon  stand, 

Till  pleasure's  voice  shall  drown  the  wind, 
Nor  heed  old  Winter's  stormy  hand 

Which  shakes  the  window-blind. 
And  down  the  midnight  hour  shall  run 

The  brightest  moments  of  the  year  j 
While  I  will  fill,  my  friends,  to  one 

Who  shall  be  nameless  here. 


THE   NAMELESS.  169 

Pledge  you  to  lips  that  smile  in  sleep, 

Whose  dreams  have  strewed  your  path  with  flowers, 
And  to  those  sacred  eyes  that  weep 

Whene'er  your  fortune  lowers ; 
And  charm  the  night,  ere  it  be  done, 

With  names  that  are  for  ever  dear, 
While  I  must  pour  and  quaff  to  one 

Who  shall  be  nameless  here. 

To  her  I  proudly  poured  the  first 

Inspiring  beaker  of  the  Rhine, 
And  still  it  floods  my  veins  as  erst 

It  filled  the  German  vine. 
And  when  her  memory,  like  the  sun, 

Shall  widen  down  my  dying  year, 
My  latest  cup  will  be  to  one 

Who  shall  be  nameless  here. 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 


IT  is  the  season  when  the  light  of  dreams 
Around  the  year  in  golden  glory  lies ; — 
The  heavens  are  full  of  floating  mysteries, 

And  down  the  lake  the  veiled  splendour  beams ! 
Like  hidden  poets  lie  the  hazy  streams, 

Mantled  with  mysteries  of  their  own  romance, 

While  scarce  a  breath  disturbs  their  drowsy  trance. 
The  yellow  leaf  which  down  the  soft  air  gleams, 

Glides,  wavers,  falls,  and  skims  the  unruffled  lake. 
Here  the  frail  maples  and  the  faithful  firs 

By  twisted  vines  are  wed.     The  russet  brake 
Skirts  the  low  pool ;  and  starred  with  open  burrs 
The  chestnut  stands — But  when  the  north-wind  stirs, 

How,  like  an  armed  host,  the  summoned  scene  shall  wake ! 


A  MORNING,  BUT  NO  SUN. 


THE  morning  comes,  but  brings  no  sun ; 
The  sky  with  storm  is  overrun ; 
And  here  I  sit  in  my  room  alone, 
And  feel,  as  I  hear  the  tempest  moan, 
Like  one  who  hath  lost  the  last  and  best, 
The  dearest  dweller  from  his  breast ! 
For  every  pleasant  sight  and  sound, 
""he  sorrows  of  the  sky  have  drowned; 
bell  within  the  neighbouring  tower, 
blurred  and  distant  through  the  shower ; 


172  A   MORNING,    BUT   NO   SUN. 

Look  where  I  will,  hear  what  I  may, 
All,  all  the  world  seems  far  away  ! 
The  dreary  shutters  creak  and  swing, 
The  windy  willows  sway  and  fling 
A  double  portion  of  the  rain 
Over  the  weeping  window  pane. 
But  I,  with  gusty  sorrow  swayed, 
Sit  hidden  here,  like  one  afraid, 
And  would  not  on  another  throw 
One  drop  of  all  this  weight  of  woe  1 


TO  THE  MASTER  BARDS. 


YE  mighty  masters  of  the  song  sublime, 

Who,  phantom-like,  with  large  unwavering  eyes, 

Stalk  down  the  solemn  wilderness  of  Time, 

Reading  the  mysteries  of  the  future  skies ; 

Oh,  scorn  not  earth  because  it  is  not  heaven ; 

Nor  shake  the  dust  against  us  from  your  feet, 

Because  we  have  rejected  what  was  given  ! 

Still  let  your  tongues  the  wondrous  theme  repeat ! 

Though  ye  be  friendless  in  this  solitude, 

Quick-winged  thoughts,  from  many  an  unborn  year, 

God-sent,  shall  feed  ye  with  prophetic  food, 

Like  those  blest  birds  which  fed  the  ancient  Seer  ! 

And  Inspiration,  like  a  wheeled  flame, 

Shall  bear  ye  upward  to  eternal  fame ! 


«OH,  WHEREFORE  SIGH?' 


OH,  wherefore  sigh  for  what  is  gone, 

Or  deem  the  future  all  a  night  ? 
From  darkness  through  the  rosy  dawn 

The  stars  go  singing  into  light. 

And  to  the  pilgrim  lone  and  gray, 

One  thought  shall  come  to  cheer  his  breast;- 
The  evening  sun  but  fades  away 

To  find  new  morning  in  the  west. 


THE    WAY. 


A  WEARY,  wandering  soul  am  I, 
O'erburthened  with  an  earthly  weight ; 

A  pilgrim  through  the  world  and  sky, 
Toward  the  Celestial  Gate. 

Tell  me,  ye  sweet  and  sinless  flowers, 
Who  all  night  gaze  upon  the  skies, 

Have  ye  not  in  the  silent  hours 
Seen  aught  of  Paradise  ? 


176  THE   WAY. 

Ye  birds,  that  soar  and  sing,  elate 

With  joy,  that  makes  your  voices  strong, 

Have  ye  not  at  the  golden  gate 
Caught  somewhat  of  your  song  ? 

Ye  waters,  sparkling  in  the  morn, 
Ye  seas,  which  glass  the  starry  night, 

Have  ye  not  from  the  imperial  bourn 
Caught  glimpses  of  its  light  ? 

Ye  hermit  oaks,  and  sentinel  pines, 
Ye  mountain  forests,  old  and  gray, 

In  all  your  long  and  winding  lines, 
Have  ye  not  seen  the  way  ? 

0  !  moon,  among  thy  starry  bowers, 

Know'st  thou  the  path  the  angels  tread  ? 

Seest  thou  beyond  thy  azure  towers 
The  shining  gates  dispread  ? 

Ye  holy  spheres,  that  sang  with  earth, 
When  earth  was  still  a  sinless  star, 

Have  the  immortals  heavenly  birth 
Within  your  realms  afar  ? 


THE  WAY.  177 

And  them,  0  sun  !  whose  light  unfurls 

Bright  banners  through  unnumbered  skies, 

Seest  thou  among  thy  subject  worlds 
The  radiant  portals  rise  ? 

All,  all  are  mute  !  and  still  am  I 

O'erburthened  with  an  earthly  weight; 

A  pilgrim  through  the  world  and  sky, 
Towards  the  Celestial  Grate. 

No  answer  wheresoever  I  roam — 

From  skies  afar  no  guiding  ray ; 
But,  hark !  the  voice  of  Christ  says,  "  Come  ! 

Arise  !  I  am  the  way  1" 
12 


THE  GREAT  ARE  FALLING  FROM  US, 


THE  great  are  falling  from  us — to  the  dust 
Our  flag  droops  midway  full  of  many  sighs  j 

A  nation's  glory  and  a  people's  trust 

Lie  in  the  ample  pall  where  Webster  lies. 

The  great  are  falling  from  us — one  by  one 
As  fall  the  patriarchs  of  the  forest  trees, 

The  winds  shall  seek  them  vainly,  and  the  sun 
Gaze  on  each  vacant  space  for  centuries. 


THE  GREAT  ARE  FALLING  FROM  US.      179 

Lo,  Carolina  mourns  her  steadfast  pine 

Which  towered  sublimely  o'er  the  Southern  realm, 
And  Ashland  hears  no  more  the  voice  divine 

From  out  the  branches  of  its  stately  elm : — 

And  Marshfield's  giant  oak,  whose  stormy  brow 
Oft  turned  the  ocean  tempest  from  the  West, 

Lies  on  the  shore  he  guarded  long — and  now 
Our  startled  eagle  knows  not  where  to  rest ! 


THE  DEPARTURE. 


ALL  around  me  glows  the  harvest 
As  I  drop  below  the  town, 

And  the  pleasant  song  of  workmen 
On  the  breeze  is  floating  down. 

Far  away  the  slender  brooklet 
Gleams  upon  the  yellow  plain, 

Like  a  newly  sharpened  sickle 
Dropped  amid  the  golden  grain. 


THE   DEPARTURE.  181 

By  the  town  and  through  the  valleys 

Sweeps  the  flashing  river  fast, 
Like  a  herald  to  the  future 

With  a  summons  from  the  past. 

Now  my  soul  hath  caught  the  music 

Of  the  happy  harvest  strain, 
And  the  stream  of  gladness  flashes, 

Like  the  brooklet,  in  my  brain. 


And,  responsive  to  the  river, 
How  my  spirit  sweeps  along, 

As  it  goes  to  meet  the  future 
With  a  purpose  firm  and  strong ! 


A  PSALM  FOR  THE  SORROWING. 


GRAY  wanderer  in  a  homeless  world, 

Poor  pilgrim  to  a  dusty  bier; 
On  Time's  great  cycle  darkly  hurled 

From  year  to  year : 
See  in  the  sky  these  words  unfurled : 

"  Thy  home  is  here  I" 

Pale  mourner,  whose  quick  tears  reveal 

Thy  weight  of  sorrow  but  begun 
Not  long  thy  burdened  soul  shall  reel 

Beneath  the  sun ; 
A  few  swift  circles  of  the  wheel, 

And  all  is  done 


A  PSALM  FOR  THE  SORROWING.        183 

Though  galled  with  fetters  ye  have  lain, 

To  vulture  hopes  and  fears  a  prey; 
Oh,  moan  not  o'er  your  ceaseless  pain 

Or  slow  decay; 
For  know,  the  soul  thus  files  its  chain 

And  breaks  away. 


NIGHT. 


OH  Night,  most  beautiful  and  rare ! 

Thou  giv'st  the  heavens  their  holiest  hue, 
And  through  the  azure  fields  of  air 

Bring'st  down  the  gentle  dew. 

Most  glorious  occupant  of  heaven, 
And  fairest  of  the  earth  and  sea, 

The  wonders  of  the  sky  are  given, 
Imperial  Night,  to  thee  ! 

For  thou,  with  angel  music  blest, 
Didst  stand  in  that  dim  age  afar, 

And  hold  upon  thy  trembling  breast 
Messiah's  herald  star ! 


OF 


NIGHT.  185 

vv  C1  A          O:F 
In  Olivet  thou  heard'st  Him  prayy  '^ 

And  wept  thy  dews  in  softer  light, 
And  kissed  his  sacred  tears  away, 
Thrice  blessed,  loving  Night ! 

And  thou  didst  overweigh  with  sleep 

The  watchers  at  the  sepulchre ; 
And  heard'st  the  asking  Mary  weep 

Till  Jesus  answered  her. 

For  this  I  love  thy  hallowed  reign ; 

For  more  than  this  thrice  blest  thou  art; 
Thou  gain'st  the  unbeliever's  brain 

By  entering  at  the  heart ! 

Oh  Night,  whose  loving  smile  divine 

Thus  lifts  the  spirit  from  the  dust, 
G-od's  best  and  brightest  gifts  are  thine — 

All  thine  and  it  is  just. 


WINTER. 


SAD  soul — dear  heart,  0  why  repine  ? 

The  melancholy  tale  is  plain — 
The  leaves  of  spring,  the  summer  flowers 

Have  bloomed  and  died  again. 

The  sweet  and  silver-sandalled  Dew 

"Which  like  a  maiden  fed  the  flowers, 

Hath  waned  into  the  beldame  Frost, 
And  walked  amid  our  bowers. 

Some  buds  there  were— sad  hearts,  be  still ! — 
Which  looked  awhile  unto  the  sky, 

Then  breathed  but  once  or  twice,  to  tell 
How  sweetest  things  may  die ! 


WINTER.  187 

And  some  must  blight  where  many  bloom ; — 
But,  blight  or  bloom,  the  fruit  must  fall ! 

Why  sigh  for  spring  or  summer  flowers, 
Since  Winter  gathers  all  ? 

He  gathers  all — but  chide  him  not — 
He  wraps  them  in  his  mantle  cold, 

And  folds  them  close,  as  best  he  can, 
For  he  is  blind  and  old. 

Sad  soul — dear  heart,  no  more  repine — 

The  tale  is  beautiful  and  plain : 
Surely  as  Winter  taketh  all, 

The  Spring  shall  bring  again. 


THE  BARDS. 


WHEN  the  sweet  day  in  silence  hath  departed, 

And  twilight  comes  with  dewy,  downcast  eyes, 
The  glowing  spirits  of  the  mighty-hearted 
Like  stars  around  me  rise. 

Spirits  whose  voices  pour  an  endless  measure, 

Exhaustless  as  the  choral  founts  of  night, 
Until  my  trembling  soul,  oppressed  with  pleasure, 
Throbs  in  a  flood  of  light. 


THE   BARDS.  189 

Old  Homer's  song  in  mighty  undulations 

Comes  surging  ceaseless  up  the  oblivious  main : — 
I  hear  the  rivers  from  succeeding  nations 
Go  answering  down  again. 

Hear  Virgil's  strain  through  pleasant  pastures  strolling, 

And  Tasso's  sweeping  round  through  Palestine, 
And  Dante's  deep  and  solemn  river  rolling 
Through  groves  of  midnight  pine. 

I  hear  the  iron  Norseman's  numbers  ringing 

Through  frozen  Norway  like  a  herald's  horn ; 
And  like  a  lark,  hear  glorious  Chaucer  singing 
Away  in  England's  morn. 


In  Rhenish  halls,  still  hear  the  pilgrim  lover 
Chant  his  wild  story  to  the  wailing  strings, 
Till  the  young  maiden's  eyes  are  brimming  over 
Like  the  full  cup  she  brings. 

And  hear  from  Scottish  hills  the  souls  unquiet 

Pouring  in  torrents  their  perpetual  lays, 
As  their  impetuous  mountain  runnels  riot 
In  the  long  rainy  days  j 


190  THE   BARDS. 

The  world-wide  Shakspeare — the  imperial  Spenser : 
Whose  shafts  of,  song  o'ertop  the  angels'  seats, — 
While,  delicate  as  from  a  silver  censer, 

Float  the  sweet  dreams  of  Keats ! 


Nor  these  alone — for  through  the  growing  present, 

Westward  the  starry  path  of  Poesy  lies — 
Her  glorious  spirit,  like  the  evening  crescent, 
Comes  rounding  up  the  skies. 


THE  DISTANT  MART. 


THE  day  is  shut : — November's  night, 
On  Newark's  long  and  rolling  height 

Falls  suddenly  and  soon ; — 
At  once  the  myriad  stars  disclose ; 
And  in  the  east  a  glory  glows 
Like  that  the  red  horizon  shows 

Above  the  moon. 

But  on  the  western  mountain  tops 
The  moon,  in  new-born  beauty,  drops 

Her  pale  and  slender  ring ; 
Still,  like  a  phantom  rising  red 
O'er  haunted  valleys  of  the  dead, 
I  see  the  distant  east  dispread 

Its  fiery  wing. 


192  THE   DISTANT   MART. 

I  know  by  thoughts,  which,  like  the  skies, 
Grow  darker  as  they  slowly  rise 

Above  my  burning  heart, 
It  is  the  light  the  peasant  views, 
Through  nightly  falling  frost  and  dews, 
While  Fancy  paints  in  brighter  hues 

The  distant  mart. 

Through  shadowy  hills  and  meadows  brown 
The  calm  Passaic  reaches  down 

"Where  the  broad  waters  lie ; — 
From  hillside  homes  what  visions  teem  ! 
The  fruitless  hope — ambitious  dream — 
Go  freighted  downward  with  the  stream, 

And  yonder  die ! 

And  youths  and  maids  with  strange  desires 
O'er  quiet  homes  and  village  spires 

Behold  the  radiance  grow  ; 
They  see  the  lighted  casements  fine — 
The  crowded  halls  of  splendour  shine — 
The  gleaming  jewels  and  the  wine — 

But  not  the  woe  ! 


THE   DISTANT   MART.  193 

Take  from  yon  flaunting  flame  the  ray 
Which  glows  on  heads  untimely  gray, 

On  blasted  heart  and  brain; — 
From  rooms  of  death  the  watcher's  lamp, 
From  homes  of  toil,  from  hovels  damp, 
And  dens  where  Shame  and  Crime  encamp 

With  Want  and  Pain  : — 

From  vain  bazaars  and  gilded  halls, 
Where  every  misnamed  pleasure  palls, 

Remove  the  chandeliers; 
Then  mark  the  scanty,  scattered  rays, 
And  think  amid  that  dwindled  blaze 
How  few  shall  walk  their  happy  ways 

And  shed  no  tears  ! 

But  now,  when  fade  the  fevered  gleams, 
Some  trouble  melts  away  to  dreams, 

Some  pain  to  sweet  repose  : — 
And  as  the  midnight  shadows  sweep, 
Life's  noisy  torrent  drops  to  sleep, 
Its  unseen  current  dark  and  deep 

In  silence  flows. 


13 


THE    TWINS. 


FROM  a  beautiful  lake  on  the  mountain 

Two  rivulets  came  down, 
Prattling  awhile  to  the  violets, 

Mid  shadows  green  and  brown. 

Over  beds  of  golden  lustre, 

Around  by  rock  and  tree, 
They  sang  the  same  tune  with  their  silvery  tongues, 

And  clapped  their  hands  in  glee. 


THE    TWINS.  195 

Over  rocks  with  mosses  mantled. 

They  eddied  and  whirled,  like  a  waltzing  pair, 
Till,  hand  in  hand,  with  laughter  and  leap 

They  mingled  their  misty  hair. 

Over  the  self-same  ledges, 

Singing  the  self-same  tune, 
They  passed  from  April  to  breezy  May, 

Toward  the  fields  of  June. 

They  whirled,  and  danced,  and  dallied, 

And  through  the  meadows  slid, 
Till  under  the  same  thick  grass  and  flowers 

Their  further  course  was  hid  ! 

I  saw  two  beautiful  children 

Of  one  fair  mother  born, 
Playing  among  the  dewy  buds 

That  bloomed  beneath  the  morn. 

The  same  in  age  and  beauty, 

The  same  in  voice  and  size, 
The  same  bright  hair  upon  their  necks, 

The  same  shade  in  their  eyes. 


196  THE    TWINS. 

Singing  the  same  song  ever 
In  the  self-same  silvery  tune, 

They  passed  from  April  into  May, 
Toward  the  fields  of  June. 

They  whirled,  and  danced,  and  dallied 

The  beautiful  vales  amid, 
Till  under  the  same  thick  leaves  and  flowers 

Their  future  course  was  hid. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  FLORENCE. 


WITHIN  this  far  Etruscan  clime, 

By  vine-clad  slopes  and  olive  plains, 

And  round  these  walls  still  left  by  Time, 
The  boundaries  of  his  old  domains : — 

Here  at  the  dreamer's  golden  goal, 

Whose  dome  o'er  winding  Arno  drops, 

Where  old  Romance  still  breathes  its  soul 
Through  Poesy's  enchanted  stops  : — 

Where  Art  still  holds  her  ancient  state 

(What  though  her  banner  now  is  furled), 

And  keeps  within  her  guarded  gate 

The  household  treasures  of  the  world  : — 


198  LINES   WRITTEN   IN    FLORENCE. 

What  joy  amid  all  this  to  find 

One  single  bird,  or  flower,  or  leaf, 

Earth's  any  simplest  show  designed 

For  pleasure,  what  though  frail  or  brief- 

If  but  that  leaf,  or  bird,  or  flower 

Were  wafted  from  the  western  strand, 

To  breathe  into  one  happy  hour 

The  freshness  of  my  native  land  ! 

That  joy  is  mine — the  bird  I  hear, 

The  flower  is  blooming  near  me  now, 

The  leaf  that  some  great  bard  might  wear 
In  triumph  on  his  sacred  brow. 

For  lady,  while  thy  voice  and  face 

Make  thee  the  Tuscan's  loveliest  guest, 

Within  this  old  romantic  space 

Breathes  all  the  freshness  of  the  West. 


A  NIGHT  AT  THE  BLACK  SIGN. 


YE,  who  follow  to  the  measure 

Where  the  trump  of  Fortune  leads, 

And  at  inns  a-glow  with  pleasure 
Rein  your  golden-harnessed  steeds, 

In  your  hours  of  lordly  leisure 
Have  ye  heard  a  voice  of  woe 

On  the  starless  wind  of  midnight 
Come  and  go  ? 

Pilgrim  brothers,  whose  existence 
Rides  the  higher  roads  of  Time, 

Hark,  how  from  the  troubled  distance, 
Voices  made  by  woe  sublime, 

In  their  sorrow,  claim  assistance, 

Though  it  come  from  friend  or  foe — 

Shall  they  ask  and  find  no  answer  ? 
Rise  and  go. 


200  A   NIGHT   AT    THE    BLACK    SIGN. 

One  there  was,  who  in  his  sadness 
Laid  his  staff  and  mantle  down, 
Where  the  demons  laughed  to  madness 

What  the  night-winds  could  not  drown- 
Never  came  a  voice  of  gladness 

Though  the  cups  should  foam  and  flow, 
And  the  pilgrim  thus  proclaiming 
Rose  to  go. 

"  All  the  night  I  hear  the  speaking 
Of  low  voices  round  my  bed, 

And  the  dreary  floor  a-creaking 
Under  feet  of  stealthy  tread  : — 

Like  a  very  demon  shrieking 

Swings  the  black  sign  to  and  fro, 

Come,  arise,  thou  cheerless  keeper, 
For  I  go. 

"  On  the  hearth  the  brands  are  lying 
In  a  black,  unseemly  show ; 

Through  the  roof  the  winds  are  sighing, 
And  they  will  not  cease  to  blow ; 

Through  the  house  sad  hearts  replying 
Send  their  answer  deep  and  low — 

Come,  arise,  thou  cheerless  keeper, 
For  I  go. 


A   NIGHT   AT    THE   BLACK    SIGN.  201 

"  Tell  me  not  of  fires  relighted 

And  of  chambers  glowing  warm, 
Or  of  travellers  benighted, 

Overtaken  by  the  storm. 
Urge  me  not ;  your  hand  is  blighted 

As  your  heart  is — even  so  ! 
Come,  arise,  thou  cheerless  keeper — 
For  I  go. 

"  Tell  me  not  of  goblets  teeming 

With  the  antidote  of  pain, 
For  its  taste  and  pleasant  seeming 

Only  hide  the  deadly  bane ; 
Hear  your  sleepers  tortured  dreaming, 

How  they  curse  thee  in  their  woe ! 
Come,  arise,  thou  cheerless  keeper, 
For  I  go. 

lt  I  will  leave  your  dreary  tavern 

Ere  I  drink  its  mandragore  : 
Like  a  black  and  hated  cavern, 

There  are  reptiles  on  the  floor ; 
They  have  overrun  your  tavern, 

They  are  at  your  wine  below ! 
Come,  arise,  thou  fearful  keeper, 
For  I  go. 


202  A   NIGHT   AT   THE   BLACK    SIGN. 

tl  There's  an  hostler  in  your  stable 
Tends  a  steed  no  man  may  own, 

And  against  your  windy  gable 

How  the  night-birds  scream  and  moan  ! 

Even  the  bread  upon  your  table 
Is  the  ashy  food  of  woe ; 

Come,  arise,  thou  fearful  keeper, 
For  I  go. 

"  Here  I  will  not  seek  for  slumber, 
And  I  will  not  taste  your  wine  : 

All  your  house  the  fiends  encumber, 
And  they  are  no  mates  of  mine ; 

Never  more  I  join  your  number 

Though  the  tempests  rain  or  snow — 

Here's  my  staff  and  here's  my  mantle, 
And  I  go." 

Suffering  brothers — doubly  brothers — 
(Pain  hath  made  us  more  akin) 

Trust  not  to  the  strength  of  others, 
Trust  the  arm  of  strength  within ; 

One  good  hour  of  courage  smothers 
All  the  ills  an  age  can  know ; 

Take  your  staff  and  take  your  mantle, 
Rise  and  go. 


A  DESERTED  FARM. 


THE  elms  were  old,  and  gnarled,  and  bent — 
The  fields,  untilled,  were  choked  with  weeds, 

Where  every  year  the  thistles  sent 
Wider  and  wider  their  winged  seeds. 

Farther  and  farther  the  nettle  and  dock 

Went  colonizing  o'er  the  plain, 
Growing  each  season  a  plenteous  stock 

Of  burrs  to  protect  their  wild  domain. 


204  A  DESERTED   FARM. 

The  last  who  ever  had  ploughed  the  soil 
Now  in  the  furrowed  churchyard  lay — 

The  boy  who  whistled  to  lighten  his  toil 
Was  a  sexton  somewhere  far  away. 

Instead,  you  saw  how  the  rabbit  and  mole 
Burrowed  and  furrowed  with  never  a  fear ; 

How  the  tunnelling  fox  looked  out  of  his  hole, 
Like  one  who  notes  if  the  skies  are  clear. 

No  mower  was  there  to  startle  the  birds 

With  the  noisy  whet  of  his  reeking  scythe ; 

The  quail,  like  a  cow-boy  calling  his  herds, 
Whistled  to  tell  that  his  heart  was  blithe. 

Now  all  was  bequeathed  with  pious  care — 

The  groves  and  fields  fenced  round  with  briers — 

To  the  birds  that  sing  in  the  cloisters  of  air, 
And  the  squirrels,  those  merry  woodland  friars. 


LINES  TO  A  BIRD. 

WHICH  SUNG  AT  MY  WINDOW  ONE  MORNING  IN  LONDON 

WHENCE  comest  thou,  oh  wandering  soul  of  song  ? 

Round  the  celestial  gates  hast  thou  been  winging, 
And  hearkening  to  the  angels  all  night  long 

To  brighten  earth  with  somewhat  of  their  singing  ? 

Thou  child  of  sunshine,  spirit  of  the  flowers  ! 

Nature,  through  thee,  with  loving  tongue  rejoices, 
Until  these  walls  dissolve  themselves  to  bowers, 

And  all  the  air  is  full  of  woodland  voices. 

The  winds  that  slumbered  in  the  fields  of  dew, 
Float  round  me  now  with  music  on  their  pinions, 

Such  as  I  heard  while  yet  my  years  were  few, 
By  native  streams,  in  boyhood's  lost  dominions 


206  LINES    TO    A    BIRD. 

And  with  the  breath  of  morning  on  my  brow, 
I  hear  the  accents  of  the  few  who  love  me ; 

Sing  on,  full  heart !  I  am  no  exile  now — 
This  is  no  foreign  sky  that  smiles  above  me. 

I  hear  the  happy  sounds  of  household  glee, 

The  heart's  own  music,  floating  here  to  bless  me, 

And  little  ones  who  smiled  upon  my  knee* 

Now  clap  the  dimpled  hands  that  would  caress  me. 

Oh  !  music  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  chime 
Of  magic  bells  by  fairies  set  a-swinging ; 

I  am  no  pilgrim  in  a  foreign  clime, 

With  these  blest  visions  ever  round  me  clinging. 

•   I  hear  a  voice  no  melody  can  reach ; 

Dear  lips,  speak  on  in  your  accustomed  measure, 
And  teach  my  heart  what  you  so  well  can  teach, 
How  only  love  is  earth's  enduring  pleasure. 

Oh  !  music  sweeter  than  the  Arcadian's  tune, 
Wooing  the  dryads  from  the  woodlands  haunted ; 

Or  than  beneath  the  mellow  harvest  moon, 
Trembles  at  midnight  over  lakes  enchanted ! 


LINES    TO   A    BIRD.  207 

Oh !  sweeter  than  the  herald  of  the  morn, 

The  clarion  lark,  that  wakes  the  drowsy  peasant, 

Is  this  which  thrills  niy  breast,  so  else  forlorn, 
And  with  the  Past  and  distant  fills  the  Present. 

Thus,  with  the  music  ringing  in  my  heart, 

I  may  awhile  forget  an  exile's  sorrow, 
And,  armed  with  courage,  rise — and  so  depart ; 

But  what  sweet  bird  ehall  sing  to  me  to-morrow  1 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR. 

All  in  their  lifetime  carve  their  own  soul's  statue. 

THE  middle  chimes  of  night  were  dead; — 
The  sculptor  pressed  his  sleepless  bed, 
"With  locks  grown  gray  in  a  world  of  sin ; 
His  eyes  were  sunken,  his  cheeks  were  thin ; 
And,  like  a  leaf  on  a  withering  limb, 
The  fluttering  life  still  clung  to  him. 

While  gazing  on  the  shadowy  wall, 
He  heard  the  muffled  knocker  fall : — 
Before  an  answering  foot  could  stir, 
Entered  the  midnight  messenger : 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR.  209 

Around  his  shining  shoulders  rolled 
Long  and  gleaming  locks  of  gold; 
The  radiance  of  his  features  fell 
In  Beauty's  light  unspeakable, 
And  like  the  matin  song  of  birds, 
Swelled  the  rich  music  of  his  words. 

"  Arise  !  it  is  your  monarch's  will ; 
Ere  sounds  from  the  imperial  hill 
The  warder's  trumpet-blast, 
His  palace  portal  must  be  passed : 
Arise  !  and  be  the  veil  withdrawn, 
And  let  the  long-wrought  statue  dawn  ! 
The  stars  that  fill  the  fields  of  light 
Must  pale  before  its  purer  light ; 
The  unblemished  face — the  spotless  limb, 
Must  shine  among  the  seraphim  : 
Faultless  in  form — in  nothing  dim — 
It  must  be  ere  it  come  to  Him  !" 

The  sculptor  rose  with  heavy  heart, 

And  slowly  put  the  veil  apart, 

And  stood  with  downcast  look,  entranced, 

The  while  the  messenger  advanced, 

And  thought  he  heard,  yet  knew  not  why, 

His  hopes  like  boding  birds  go  by, 

14 


210  THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR. 

And  felt  his  heart  sink  ceaselessly 

Down,  like  the  friendless  dead  at  sea. 

0  !  for  one  breath  to  stir  the  air, 

To  break  the  stillness  of  despair; 

Welcome  alike,  though  it  were  given 

From  sulphurous  shade,  or  vales  of  Heaven  ! 

Now  on  the  darkness  swelled  a  sigh  ! — 
The  sculptor  raised  his  languid  eye, 
And  saw  the  radiant  stranger  stand 
Hiding  his  sorrow  with  his  hand ; 
His  heart  a  billowy  motion  kept, 

And  ever,  with  its  fall  and  rise, 
The  stillness  of  the  air  was  swept 
With  a  long  wave  of  sighs. 
The  old  man's  anxious  asking  eyes 
Grew  larger  with  their  blank  surprise, 
With  wonder  why  he  wept : — 

And  while  his  eyes  and  wonder  grew, — 
Came,  with  the  tears  which  gushed  anew, 
The  music  of  the  stranger's  tongue, 
But  broken,  like  a  swollen  rill 
That  heaves  adown  its  native  hill, 
Sobbing  where  late  it  sung  : — 
"  Is  this  the  statue  fair  and  white 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR.  211 

A  long  laborious  life  hath  wrought, 
And  which  our  generous  Prince  hath  bought  ? 
Is  this  (so  soulless,  soiled,  and  dull) 
To  pass  the  golden  gates  of  light 
And  stand  among  the  beautiful? 
The  lines  which  seam  the  front  and  cheek 
Too  well  unholy  lusts  bespeak ; 
The  brow  by  Anger's  hand  is  weighed, 
And  Malice  there  his  scar  hath  made; 
There  Scorn  hath  set  her  seal  secure, 
And  curled  the  lip  against  the  poor; 
And  Hate  hath  fixed  the  steady  glance 
Which  Jealousy  hath  turned  askance ; 
While  thoughts,  of  those  dark  parents  born, 
Innumerable,  from  night  till  morn, 
And  morn  till  night,  have  wrought  their  will, 
Like  stones  upon  a  barren  hill. 
Old  man  !  although  thy  locks  be  gray, 
And  life's  last  hour  is  on  its  way — 
Although  thy  limbs  with  palsy  quake, 
Thy  hands,  like  windy  branches,  shake — 
Ere  from  yon  rampart  high  and  round 
The  watchful  warder's  blast  shall  sound, 
Let  this  be  altered — still  it  may, — 
Your  Monarch  brooks  no  more  delay !" 
The  stranger  spake  and  passed  away. 


212  THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR. 

A  moment  stood  the  aged  man 
With  lips  apart,  and  looks  aghast, 
Still  gazing  where  the  stranger  passed. 
And  now  a  shudder  o'er  him  ran, 
As  chill  November's  breezes  sweep 
Across  the  dying  meadow  grass ; 
His  tongue  was  dry,  he  could  not  speak, 
His  eyes  were  glazed  like  heated  glass. 
But  when  the  tears  began  to  creep 
Adown  the  channels  of  his  cheek, 
A  long  and  shadowy  train, 
Born  of  his  sorrowing  brain, 
With  shining  feet,  and  noiseless  tread, 
By  dewy-eyed  Repentance  led, 
Around  the  statue  pressed  : 
With  eager  hand  and  swelling  breast 
Hope,  jubilant,  the  chisel  seized 

And  heavenward  turned  the  eye; 
Forgiveness,  radiant  and  pleased, 
The  ridges  of  the  brow  released; 

While  with  a  tear  and  sigh 
Sweet  Charity  the  scorn  effaced; 

And  Mercy,  mild  and  fair, 

Upon  the  lips  her  chisel  placed, 

And  left  her  signet  there : 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR.  213 

And  Love,  the  earliest  born  of  Heaven, 

Over  the  features  glowing,  ran ; 
While  Peace,  the  best  and  latest  given, 

Finished  what  Hope  began. 

One  minute  now  before  the  last, 

The  stately  stranger  came ; 
A  smile  upon  the  statue  cast — 
Then  to  the  fainting  stranger  passed, 

And  spake  his  errand  and  his  name : 
And  on  the  old  man's  latest  breath 
Swelled  the  sweet  whisper,  "  Welcome,  Death  \" 

Afar  from  the  imperial  height 

Sounded  the  warder's  horn  : 

Upward,  by  singing  angels  borne, 
The  statue  passed  the  gates  of  light 
Outshining  all  the  stars  of  night, 

And  fairer  than  the  morn. 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUNERAL. 


THROUGH  the  darkened  streets  of  Florence, 
Moving  toward  thy  church,  Saint  Lorenz, 
Marched  the  bearers,  masked  and  singing, 
With  their  ghostly  flambeaux  flinging 
Ghostlier  shadows  that  went  winging 
Round  the  portals  and  the  porches, 
As  if  spirits,  which  had  hovered 
In  the  darkness  undiscovered, 
Danced  about  the  hissing  torches, 
Like  the  moths  that  whirl  and  caper 
Drunken  round  an  evening  taper. 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUNERAL.  215 

Unconsoled  and  unconsoling 
Rolled  the  Arno,  louder  rolling 
As  the  rain  poured — and  the  tolling, 
Though  the  thick  shower  fell  demurely, 
Fell  from  out  one  turret  only 
Where  the  bell  swung  sad  and  lonely 
Prisoned  in  the  cloud  securely. 
Masked  in  black,  with  voices  solemn 
Strode  the  melancholy  column, 
With  a  stiff  and  soulless  burden 
Bearing  to  the  grave  its  guerdon, 
While  the  torch  flames,  vexed  and  taunted 
By  the  night  winds,  leapt  and  flaunted, 
Mid  the  funeral  rains  that  slanted, 
Those  brave  bearers  marched  and  chanted, 
Through  the  darkness  thick  and  dreary, 
With  a  woful  voice  and  weary, 


MISERERE. 

Light  to  light  and  dark  to  dark, 

Kindred  natures  thus  agree ; 
Where  the  soul  soars  none  can  mark, 
But  the  world  below  may  hark— 
Miserere,  Domine  I 


216  THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUNERAL. 

Dew  to  dew,  and  rain  to  rain, 

Swell  the  streams  and  reach  the  sea; 
When  the  drouth  shall  burn  the  plain, 
Then  the  sands  shall  but  remain — 
Miserere,  Domine. 

Flame  to  flame — let  ashes  fall 
Where  the  fireless  ashes  be; 
Embers  black  and  funeral 
Unto  dying  cinders  call — 
Miserere,  Domine  ! 

Life  to  life  and  dust  to  dust  ! 

Christ,  who  died  upon  the  tree, 
Thine  the  promise,  ours  the  trust, 
We  are  weak — but  thou  art  just — 
Miserere,  Domine  ! 

FIRST    BYSTANDER. 

There,  stand  aside,  the  very  eaves  are  weeping 
As  are  the  heavens  in  sympathy  with  us  : — 
Italians  air  hath  not  within  its  keeping 
A  nobler  heart  than  that  which  lies  there  sleeping, 
For  whom  the  elements  are  wailing  thus. 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUNERAL.  217 

SECOND   BYSTANDER. 

I  reverenced  him — he  was  a  marvellous  schemer ; 
Hath  built  more  airy  structures  in  his  day 
Than  ever  wild  and  opiate-breathing  dreamer 
Hath  drugged  his  dreams  with  even  in  Cathay. 
His  fancy  went  in  marble  round  the  earth 
And  whitened  it  with  statues — where  he  trod 
The  silent  people  leapt  to  sudden  birth, 
And  all  the  sky,  exulting  high  and  broad, 
Became  a  mighty  Pantheon  for  Grod. 


THIRD   BYSTANDER. 


You  reverenced  him  ?    I  loved  him,  with  a  scope 
Of  feeling  I  may  never  know  again; 
And  love  him  still,  even  though  beyond  all  hope 
The  priest,  the  bishop,  cardinal,  and  pope, 
Should  banish  him  to  wear  a  burning  chain 
In  those  great  dungeons  of  the  unforgiven, 
Under  the  space-deep  castle  walls  of  Heaven. 
I  know  the  Church  considered  it  a  sin, 
I  know  the  Duke  considered  it  a  shame — 
That  our  Alzoni  would  not  stoop  to  win 
What  any  blunderer,  now-a-day,  may  claim, 
A  niche  in  Santa  Croce, — which  hath  been, 
And  is,  to  them,  the  very  shrine  of  Fame ! 


218  THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUNERAL. 

Why,  look  you,  why  should  one  carve  out  his  soul 
In  bits  to  meet  the  world's  unthankful  stare ; 
For  Ignorance  to  hold  in  his  control 
And  sly-eyed  Jealousy's  detracting  glare  ? 
To  see  the  golden  glories  of  his  brain 
Out-glittered  by  a  brazen  counterfeit  ? 
The  starriest  spirit  only  shines  in  vain, 
When  every  rocket  can  outdazzle  it ! 


CHORUS  OF  STUDENTS,  FOLLOWING. 

They  bear  the  great  Alzoni — he  is  dead, — 

Our  hope  is  dead,  and  lies  on  yonder  bier; 
There  is  no  comfort  left  for  any  here 
Since  he  is  dead. 

Oh,  mother  Florence,  droop  your  queenly  head, 

And  mingle  ashes  with  your  wreath  of  flowers — 
Build  funeral  altars  in  your  ducal  bowers; 
For  he  is  dead. 

Oh,  sacred  Arno,  be  your  ripples  shed 

No  more  in  music  o'er  your  silver  sands, 
But  mourn  to  death,  and  wring  your  watery  hands ; 
For  he  is  dead. 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUN 

Ye  dusky  palaces,  whose  gloom  is  wed 

To  princely  names  that  never  may  depart, 
Drown  all  your  lights  in  tears — the  prince  of  Art, 
Your  hope,  is  dead  ! 

Ye  spirits  who  to  glory  have  been  led, 

In  years  agone,  departed  souls  of  might, 
Make  joyful  space  in  Heaven,  for  our  delight 
On  earth  is  dead. 


And  thus  with  melancholy  songs  they  bore  him 

Into  the  chapel — 'twixt  the  columns  vast 
They  set  the  bier,  and  lit  great  tapers  o'er  him, 
And  looked  their  last. 

They  looked  and  pondered  on  his  dreamy  history 

Whose  sudden  close  had  left  them  broken-hearted, 
Till  cloudy  censers  veiled  the  light  in  mystery, 
And  they  departed. 


DOOMED  AND  FORGOTTEN. 


Two  mighty  angels  in  the  outer  blue, 

With  great  palm  branches  slanting  in  their  hands, 
Stood  by  the  golden  gate  that  guards  the  view 

Wherein  God's  temple  stands. 

So  still  they  were,  the  porphyry  pillars  high 
That  propt  the  fretted  cornice  and  the  frieze, 

Stood  not  more  breathless  when  the  choral  sky 
Withheld  its  symphonies. 


DOOMED   AND   FORGOTTEN.  221 

And  golden  haloes  bound  their  brows  in  light, 
Till  each  head  shone  like  Saturn  with  his  rings, 

And  to  their  sandals,  beautiful  and  bright 
Went  down  their  crosswise  wings. 


Low  at  their  feet,  with  pinions  all  distraught, 
As  they  the  Siroc's  stormy  path  had  swept. 

And  ashen  cheeks  still  hot  with  burning  thought, 
A  spirit  sat  and  wept : — 


And  shed  such  tears  as  from  the  heart  can  flow 
Alone  when  Hope  flies  far  from  our  distress, 

Leaving  no  guide  athwart  the  world  of  woe, 
The  pathless  wilderness. 


Thus  have  I  seen  some  sad  and  sightless  one, 
Before  a  palace  with  nor  hound  nor  staff, 

Sit  weeping  in  the  sultry  dust,  with  none 
To  speak  in  his  behalf. 

But  happier  far  that  prisoner  from  the  day, 
With  all  the  sunlight  mocking  his  blank  eyes, 

Than  him,  whose  doomed  path  forgotten  lay 
Along  the  under  skies. 


222  DOOMED   AND   FORGOTTEN. 

Doomed  and  forgotten  !  These  are  sounds  attuned 

To  all  the  world  conceives  of  misery — 
And  drown  the  heart,  as  if  the  last  wave  swooned 
Above  us  in  the  sea ! 


Doomed  and  forgotten — by  our  God  forgot, 
Who  noteth  even  the  sparrow  in  his  fall; 
"With  whom  the  smallest  living  thing  is  not 
For  his  great  care  too  small. 

Doomed  and  forgotten — at  the  angel's  feet 

He  sat  with  dull  and  weary  wings  deprest, — 
But  now,  where  once  the  song  of  peace  was  sweet, 
There  came  no  voice  of  rest. 


There  was  a  time,  while  yet  his  cheek's  soft  glow 

Bloomed  in  the  boyhood  of  his  earthly  years, 
He  had  a  vision,  which  no  man  may  know, 
That  drowned  his  eyes  with  tears. 

Some  God-sent  angel,  wavering  down  the  sky, 

Had  sought  him  when  the  world  was  most  apart, 
And  given  this  vision  to  his  dreaming  eye, 
And  stamped  it  on  his  heart. 


DOOMED   AND   FORGOTTEN.  223 

Then  he  withdrew  from  all  his  fellow  youths, 

His  heaven-touched  soul  with  inspiration  filled, 
And  said  "My  time  is  God's;  the  cause  is  Truth's; 
Beneath  their  dome  I  build  !" 

For  days  and  nights  he  walked  the  solemn  wood, 

Rounding  to  fullest  form  his  great  intent, 
And  viewless  phantoms  all  about  him  stood, 
And  followed  where  he  went. 

If  he  despaired,  the  pine-cone  in  his  way 

Fell  from  the  limb  that  sentinels  the  wind— 
The  small  spring  whispered  courage  where  it  lay 
In  ancient  rocks  enshrined. 

The  wintry  mountain  stood  with  glory  topt, 

And  Iris  bound  the  labouring  torrent's  brow, 
The  acorn,  full  of  future  summers,  dropt 
From  out  the  stormy  bough. 

The  flowery  vines  in  Nature's  unseen  hand 

Curled  into  wreaths,  as  if  Fame  wandered  there, — 
The  laurel,  leaning  o'er  the  pathway,  fanned 
The  brightness  of  his  hair. 


224  DOOMED   AND  FORGOTTEN. 

There  was  a  time ! — oh,  sad  and  bitter  breath 

That  sighs  o'er  loss  of  days,  no  more  to  be — 
Of  actions  dropt  to  dreams — and  dreams  to  death, 
And  then — Eternity ! 

There  crouched  the  spirit,  abject  and  forlorn, 

Upon  the  azure  highway,  like  a  blot, 
And  raised  its  low  voice,  for  they  needs  must  mourn 
The  doomed  and  the  forgot. 

But  soon,  abashed  to  hear  his  own  "  alas !" 

He  took  his  way  aslant  the  nether  space — 
And,  wheresoever  a  star  beheld  him  pass, 
It  turned  and  veiled  its  face  ! 

Oh  soul,  remember,  howe'er  small  the  scope 

Of  thought,  or  action,  that  around  thee  lies, 
It  is  the  finished  task  alone  can  ope 
The  gates  of  Paradise. 


SONG  OF  THE  ALPINE  GUIDE. 


ON  Zurich's  spires,  with  rosy  light, 

The  mountains  smile  at  morn  and  eve, 
And  Zurich's  waters,  blue  and  bright, 

The  glories  of  those  hills  receive. 
And  there  my  sister  trims  her  sail, 

That  like  a  wayward  swallow  flies ; 
But  I  would  rather  meet  the  gale 

That  fans  the  eagle  in  the  skies. 

She  sings  in  Zurich's  chapel  choir, 
Where  rolls  the  organ  on  the  air, 
And  bells  proclaim,  from  spire  to  spire, 

Their  universal  call  to  prayer. 
15 


226  SONG   OF   THE   ALPINE   GUIDE. 

But  let  me  hear  the  mountain  rills, 

And  old  Saint  Bernard's  storm-bell  toll, 

And,  mid  these  great  cathedral  hills, 
The  thundering  avalanches  roll. 

My  brother  wears  a  martial  plume, 

And  serves  within  a  distant  land, — 
The  flowers  that  on  his  bosom  bloom 

Are  placed  there  by  a  stranger  hand. 
Love  meets  him  but  in  foreign  eyes, 

And  greets  him  in  a  foreign  speech : — 
But  she  who  to  my  heart  replies 

Must  speak  the  tongue  these  mountains  teach. 

The  warrior's  trumpet  o'er  him  swells, 

The  triumph  which  it  only  hath ; 
But  let  me  hear  the  mule-worn  bells 

Speak  peace  in  every  mountain  path. 
His  spear  is  ever  'gainst  a  foe, 

Where  waves  the  hostile  flag  abroad ; — 
My  pike-staff  only  cleaves  the  snow, 

My  banner  the  blue  sky  of  God. 

On  Zurich's  side  my  mother  sits, 
And  .to  her  whirring  spindle  sings — 

Through  Zurich's  wave  my  father's  nets 
Sweep  daily  with  their  filmy  wings. 


SONG   OF   THE   ALPINE   GUIDE.  227 

To  that  beloved  voice  I  list 

And  view  that  father's  toil  with  pride ; 
But,  like  a  low  and  vale-born  mist, 

My  spirit  climbs  the  mountain  side. 

And  I  would  ever  hear  the  stir 

And  turmoil  of  the  singing  winds, 
Whose  viewless  wheels  around  me  whirr, 

Whose  distaffs  are  the  swaying  pines. 
And,  on  some  snowy  mountain  head, 

The  deepest  joy  to  me  is  given, 
When,  net-like,  the  great  storm  is  spread 

To  sweep  the  azure  lake  of  heaven. 

Then,  since  the  vale  delights  me  not, 

And  Zurich  woos  in  vain  below, 
And  it  hath  been  my  joy  and  lot 

To  scale  these  Alpine  crags  of  snow — 
And  since  in  life  I  loved  them  well, 

Let  me  in  death  lie  down  with  them, 
And  let  the  pines  and  tempests  swell 

Around  me  their  great  requiem. 


MORNING  IN  MARTIGNY. 


'Tis  sunrise  on  Saint  Bernard's  snow, 
'Tis  dawn  within  the  vale  below ; 
And  in  Martigny's  streets  appear 
The  mule  and  noisy  muleteer ; 
And  tinklings  fill  the  rosy  air, 
Until  the  mountain  pass  seems  there, 
Up  whose  steep  pathway  scarcely  stirs 
The  long,  slow  line  of  travellers ; 
And  in  the  shadowy  town  is  heard 
The  sound  of  many  a  foreign  word. 

Old  men  are  there,  whose  locks  are  white 
As  yonder  cloud  which  veils  the  height  j 
And  maidens,  whose  young  cheeks  are  kissed 
By  ringlets  flashing  bright  or  dark, 


MORNING   IN   MARTIGNY.  229 

Whose  hearts  are  light  as  yonder  mist 
That  holds  the  music  of  the  lark — 
And  youths  are  there  with  jest  and  laugh, 
Each  bearing  his  oft-branded  staff 
To  chronicle,  when  all  is  done, 
The  dangerous  heights  his  feet  have  won. 

So  toils  through  life  the  pilgrim  soul 

Mid  rocky  ways  and  valleys  fair ; 
At  every  base  or  glorious  goal, 

His  staff  receives  the  record  there — 
The  names  that  shall  for  ever  twine, 
And  blossom  like  a  fragrant  vine — 
Or,  like  a  serpent,  round  it  cling 
Eternally  to  coil  and  sting. 


A  MAIDEN'S  TEARS. 


0,  WHEN  a  maiden's  soul  is  stirred 

To  pity's  deepest,  last  excess, 
And,  like  some  lonely,  brooding  bird, 

Folds  its  bright  wings  in  mournfulness ; 
And  pours  its  sympathy  in  sighs, 

That  sweeten  on  the  rosy  lips; 
And  sends  the  tears  into  the  eyes, 

To  flood  them  with  a  half  eclipse, — 
How  brighter  its  veiled  beauty  shows 
Than  all  the  light  which  joy  bestows  ! 


A  MAIDEN'S  TEARS.  231 

Thus  fairer  the  fair  flower  appears, 

Beneath  a  dewy  fullness  bowed ; 
The  moon  a  double  lustre  wears, 

Within  the  halo  of  a  cloud. 
The  music  of  a  maiden's  mirth 
May  be  the  sweetest  sound  to  earth ; 
But  tears,  in  love  and  pity  given, 
Are  welcomer,  by  far,  to  Heaven. 


WOMAN. 


AN  angel  wandering  out  of  heaven, 
And  all  too  bright  for  Eden  even, 
Once  through  the  paths  of  paradise 

Made  luminous  the  auroral  air ; 
And,  walking  in  His  awful  guise, 

Met  the  Eternal  Father  there ; 
Who,  when  he  saw  the  truant  sprite, 
Smiled  love  through  all  those  bowers  of  light. 
While  deep  within  his  tranced  spell, 

Our  Eden  sire  lay  slumbering  near, 
God  saw,  and  said  :  "  It  is  not  well 

For  man  alone  to  linger  here." 


WOMAN. 

Then  took  that  angel  by  the  hand, 

And  with  a  kiss  its  brow  He  prest, 
And  whispering  all  His  mild  command, 

He  laid  it  on  the  sleeper's  breast; 
With  earth  enough  to  make  it  human, 
He  chained  its  wings,  and  called  it  WOMAN. 
And  if  perchance  some  stains  of  rust 

Upon  her  pinions  yet  remain, 
;Tis  but  the  mark  of  G-od's  own  dust, 

The  earth -mould  of  that  Eden  chain  ! 


THE  CITY  OF  GOD. 


Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy." — WORDSWORTH 


ERE  the  rose  and  the  roseate  hues  of  the  dawn, 

With  the  dews  of  my  youth,  were  all  scattered  and  gone; 

Ere  the  cloud,  like  the  far  reaching  wing  of  the  night, 

Had  shut  out  the  glory  of  God  from  my  sight, 

I  saw  a  wide  realm  in  the  azure  unfold, 

Where  the  fields  nodded  towards  me  their  flowers  of  gold; 

And  the  soft  airs  sailed  o'er  them,  and  dropt  from  above, 

As  if  shed  from  innumerous  pinions  of  love : 


*  THE   CITY   OP   GOD. 

There  were  trees  with  broad  boles  steeped  in  perfume  and 

dew, 

"While  their  full  breasts  for  ever  leaned  up  to  the  blue — 
And  within  their  wide  bosoms  the  winds  seemed  to  rest 
With  the  calm  like  the  sleep  of  a  soul  that  is  blest ; 
Or,  if  any  light  rustle  stole  out  from  their  limbs, 
'Twas  the  murmurous  music  of  delicate  hymns — 
As  if  some  dear  angel  sat  singing  within 
To  a  spirit  just  won  from  the  regions  of  sin  : 
There  were  streams  which  seemed  born  but  in  slumberous 

bowers, 
Stealing  down,  like  a  dream,  through  the  sleep  of  the 

flowers — 

So  pure  was  the  azure  they  won  from  the  height, 
The  blue  hills  seemed  melting  to  rivers  of  light; 
And  within  this  fair  realm,  where  but  angels  have  trod, 
I  beheld,  as  I  thought,  the  great  CITY  OF  GOD  ! 
All  its  high  walls  were  pierced  with  no  engines  of  Death- 
No  moat,  with  its  dull  pool,  lay  stagnant  beneath  : 
The  last  bolts,  I  ween,  the  stout  heart  has  io  fear, 
Are  pointed  and  sped  from  Death's  citadel  here; 
And  the  last  hungry  moat  the  pure  soul  has  to  brave, 
Ere  it  passes  the  portal  to  bliss,  is  the  grave  ! 
There  the  wide  wall  went  East  till  it  dimmed  to  the  view — 
And  the  wide  wall  went  West  till  it  passed  into  blue ; 


236  THE   CITY   OF   GOD. 

And  the  broad  gates  stood  open,  inviting  that  way, 
Like  the  hands  of  the  Lord  to  his  children  astray. 
There  were  high  towers,  climbing  still  dazzingly  higher, 
Till  each  shone  like  a  fixed  guiding  pillar  of  fire ; 
And  the  angels  who  watched  on  their  summits  afar, 
So  lessened  by  distance,  gleamed  each  as  a  star : 
And  the  great  dome  that  templed  the  Father  in  light, 
Seemed  to  swell  and  to  circle  and  swell  on  the  sight — 
As  some  angel  who  cleaves  his  bright  way  'mid   the 

spheres, 

Beholds  the  blue  dome  of  the  earth  as  he  nears. 
There  was  music — my  soul  unto  memory  yields, 
And  hears  the  low  sounds  floating  over  the  fields — 
But,  alas !  not  as  then,  with  its  rapturous  desire — 
Like  some  bird  that  sits  hushed  by  the  song  of  a  choir; 
It  melted  and  flowed  o'er  the  walls  and  the  towers, 
And  sweet  as  if  breathed  from  the  lips  of  the  flowers — • 
As  if  the  bright  blossoms,  with  loving  accord, 
Had  risen  and  sang  to  the  praise  of  the  Lord ! 
Then  I  thought  'mid  that  music  to  wander  and  wait 
For  the  loved  ones,  just  there  by  the  palm  at  the  gate, 
To  begin  the  great  life  that  no  Death  can  overtake, 
And  to  dream  the  great  dream  that  no  tumult  can  break ; 
In  the  broad  world  of  Beauty,  of  flowers  and  bliss — 
But,  alas !  I  awoke  where  the  thorns  grow  in  this : 


THE   CITY   OF   GOD.  237 

And  the  walls  of  Death's  citadel  now  intervene, 

And  the  grave,  like  a  moat,  yawns  here  darkly  between : 

But  still,  through  the  mists  and  the  shadows  of  night, 

I  can  follow  the  stars  on  those  pillars  of  light ; 

And  I  know  the  great  gates  stand  there  open  and  broad, 

Inviting  the  way  to  the  City  of  God. 


THE  TRUANT. 


WHERE  is  the  truant?    This  should  be  the  place, 
"Where  even  now  we  heard  him  laugh  outright, 

To  greet  the  sun,  as  if  he  saw  the  face 
Of  some  bright  angel  smiling  in  the  light. 

Surely  the  morn  hath  beckoned  him  away, 
Enticing  him  with  glory  from  afar : 

Arise  !  and  we  may  find  him  in  his  play,  * 

Shining  amid  the  sweetest  flowers  that  are. 

His  little  eyes,  so  full  of  bright  desires, 

Could  not  withstand  yon  orient  space  of  flowers 

And  he  hath  ' scaped  the  intervening  briers, 
The  field  for  bleeding  feet  which  we  call  ours. 


THE   TRUANT.  239 

It  cannot  be  he  wandered  out  alone ; 

0,  rather  that  dear  friend  of  many  charms, 
Who  wooed  him  in  each  light  that  round  us  shone, 

Won  him  at  last  into  his  careful  arms. 

0  !  look  again,  a  little  further  look, 

And  weep  no  tear  unless  it  be  for  joy, 
Toward  yon  sweet  field,  where  flower,  and  bird,  and  brook 

Beguile  the  glad  heart  of  our  truant  boy. 

Look  closer  still,  until  your  gaze  has  won 

And  passed  the  barriers  overflowered  with  stars, — 

Those  morning-glories  closing  in  the  sun, 

And  you  shall  see  him  through  the  golden  bars. 

Watch  where  he  goes,  still  making  toward  the  light, 

Our  angel  truant  gladly  nearing  home, 
While  a  deep  voice  from  that  celestial  height 

Bids  us  be  calm  and  suffer  him  to  come. 


RUTH. 


SUGGESTED    BY   A    STATUE   EXECUTED    BY   MR,    ROGERS   IN 
FLORENCE. 


FROM  age  to  age,  from  clime  to  clime, 
A  spirit,  bright  as  her  own  morn, 

She  walks  the  golden  fields  of  Time, 
As  erst  amid  the  yellow  corn. 

A  form  o'er  which  the  hallowed  veil 
Of  years  bequeaths  a  lovelier  light, 

As  when  the  mists  of  morning  sail 
Round  some  far  isle  to  make  it  bright. 


RUTH.  241 

And  as  some  reaper  'mid  the  grain, 

Or  binder  resting  o'er  his  sheaf, 
Beheld  her  on  the  orient  plain, 

A  passing  vision  bright  and  brief; — 

And  while  he  gazed  let  fall  perchance 
The  sheaf  or  sickle  from  his  hand — 

Thus  even  here,  as  in  a  trance, 
Before  her  kneeling  form  I  stand. 

But  not  as  then  she  comes  and  goes 

To  live  in  memory  alone ; 
The  perfect  soul  before  me  glows 

Immortal  in  the  living  stone. 

And  while  upon  her  face  I  gaze 

And  scan  her  rarely  rounded  form,  ' 

The  glory  of  her  native  days 

Comes  floating  o'er  me  soft  and  warm  ;— 

Comes  floating,  till  this  shadowy  place 
Brightens  to  noontide,  and  receives 
The  breath  of  that  old  harvest  space. 

With  all  its  sunshine  and  its  sheaves ! 
16 


THE  MARSEILLAISE. 


I  HEARD,  as  in  a  glorious  dream, 

A  clarion  thrill  the  startled  air, 
And  saw  an  answering  people  stream 

Through  every  noisy  thoroughfare. 
There  were  the  old,  whose  hairs  were  few, 

Or  white  with  memory  of  the  days 
Of  Egypt,  Moscow,  Waterloo, — 

And  now  they  sang  the  "Marseillaise." 

The  aged  scholar,  pale  and  wan, 

Was  there  within  the  marshalled  line, 

And,  jostled  by  the  noisy  van, 
The  poet  with  his  voice  divine : — 


THE   MARSEILLAISE.  243 

No  more  could  tomes  the  sage  beguile ; 

The  bard  no  longer  wooed  the  praise 
That  dribbles  from  a  monarch's  smile, 

For  now  they  sang  the  u  Marseillaise!" 


And  there  were  matrons,  who  of  yore 

Had  wept  a  son  or  husband  slain, 
Or  chanted  for  their  Emperor 

A  long  and  loud  triumphal  strain  : — 
Their  woe  inspired  the  song  no  more, 

Nor  yet  Napoleon's  crown  of  bays, 
Which  rankly  sprang  from  fields  of  gore, 

For  now  they  sang  the  "  Marseillaise  I" 


The  peasants,  from  their  hills  of  vines, 

Came  streaming  to  the  open  plains ; 
No  more  they  bore  their  tax  of  wines 

To  stagnate  in  a  tyrant's  veins ; 
France  needed  not  the  purple  flood 

To  set  her  heart  and  brain  ablaze, — 
A  wilder  wine  was  in  her  blood, 

For  now  she  sang  the  "  Marseillaise  !" 


244  THE   MARSEILLAISE. 

The  Bourbon's  throne  was  trampled  down, 

And  France  no  longer  knelt ;  but  now, 
Struck  with  a  patriot's  hand  the  crown 

From  off  the  Orleans'  dotard  brow; — 
Released  from  slavery  and  tears, 

She  rose  and  sang  fair  Freedom's  praise, 
Till  far  along  the  future  years 

I  heard  the  swelling  "  Marseillaise  !" 


THE  OLD  YEAR. 


Lo,  now,  when  dark  December's  gathering  storm 
With  heavy  wing  overshadows  many  a  heart, 
Beside  us  the  old  year,  with  mailed  form, 
Stands  waiting  to  depart. 

Weighed  down  as  with  a  ponderous  tale  of  woe, 

How  dim  his  eyes,  how  wan  his  cheeks  appear ! 

Like  Denmark's  spectre  king,  with  motion  slow 

He  beckons  the  young  year. 


A  NIGHT  THOUGHT. 


LONG  have  I  gazed  upon  all  lovely  things, 
Until  my  soul  was  melted  into  song, — 

Melted  with  love,  till  from  its  thousand  springs 
The  stream  of  adoration,  swift  and  strong, 

Swept  in  its  ardour,  drowning  brain  and  tongue, 

Till  what  I  most  would  say  was  borne  away,  unsung. 

The  brook  is  silent  when  it  mirrors  most 
Whatever  is  grand  or  beautiful  above; 

The  billow  which  would  woo  the  flowery  coast 
Dies  in  the  first  expression  of  its  love ; 


A  NIGHT   THOUGHT.  247 

And  could  the  bard  consign  to  living  breath 

Feelings  too  deep  for  thought,  the  utterance  were  death ! 

The  starless  heavens  at  noon  are  a  delight ; 

The  clouds  a  wonder  in  their  varying  play, 
And  beautiful  when  from  their  mountainous  height 

The  lightning's  hand  illumes  the  wall  of  day : — 
The  noisy  storm  bursts  down,  and  passing  brings 
The  rainbow  poised  in  air  on  unsubstantial  wings. 

But  most  I  love  the  melancholy  night — 
When  with  fixed  gaze  I  single  out  a  star, 

A  feeling  floods  me  with  a  tender  light — 
A  sense  of  an  existence  from  afar, 

A  life  in  other  spheres  of  love  and  bliss, 

Communion  of  true  souls — a  loneliness  in  this  I 

There  is  a  sadness  in  the  midnight  sky — 
An  answering  fulness  in  the  heart  and  brain, 

"Which  tells  the  spirit's  vain  attempt  to  fly, 
And  occupy  those  distant  worlds  again. 

At  such  an  hour  Death's  were  a  loving  trust, 

If  life  could  then  depart  in  its  contempt  of  dust. 


248 


A   NIGHT   THOUGHT. 


It  may  be  that  this  deep  and  longing  sense 

Is  but  the  prophecy  of  life  to  come ; 
It  may  be  that  the  soul  in  going  hence 

May  find  in  some  bright  star  its  promised  home ; 
And  that  the  Eden  lost  for  ever  here 
Smiles  welcome  to  me  now  from  yon  suspended  sphere. 

There  is  a  wisdom  in  the  light  of  stars, 
A  worldless  lore  which  summons  me  awayj 

This  ignorance  belongs  to  earth,  which  bars 
The  spirit  in  these  darkened  walls  of  clay, 

And  stifles  all  the  soul's  aspiring  breath  ] — 

True  knowledge  only  dawns  within  the  gates  of  Death. 

Imprisoned  thus,  why  fear  we  then  to  meet 
The  angel  who  shall  ope  the  dungeon  door, 

And  break  these  galling  fetters  from  our  feet, 
To  lead  us  up  from  Time's  benighted  shore  ? 

Is  it  for  love  of  this  dark  cell  of  dust, 

Which,  tenantless,  awakes  but  horror  and  disgust  ? 


"jong  have  I  mused  upon  all  lovely  things ; 
But  thou,  oh  Death  !  art  lovelier  than  all  j 


A   NIGHT   THOUGHT.  249 

Thou  sheddest  from  thy  recompensing  wings 

A  glory  which  is  hidden  by  the  pall — 
The  excess  of  radiance  falling  from  thy  plume 
Throws  from  the  gates  of  Time  a  shadow  on  the  tomb 


SONG  OF  THE  SERF. 


I  KNOW  a  lofty  lady, 

And  she  is  wondrous  fair; 
She  hath  wrought  my  soul  to  music 

As  the  leaves  are  wrought  by  air; 
And  like  the  air  that  wakes 

The  foliage  into  play, 
She  feels  no  thrill  of  all  she  makes 

When  she  has  passed  away. 

I  know  a  lofty  lady 

Who  seldom  looks  on  me, 

Or  when  she  smiles,  her  smile  is  like 
The  moon's  upon  the  sea. 


SONG   OF   THE   SERF,  251 

As  proudly  and  serene 

She  shines  from  her  domain, 
Till  my  spirit  heaves  beneath  her  mien, 

And  floods  my  aching  brain. 

I  know  a  lofty  lady  : — 

But  I  would  not  wake  her  scorn 
By  telling  all  the  love  I  bear, 

For  I  am  lowly  born ; 
So  low,  and  she  so  high — 

And  the  space  between  us  spread 
Makes  me  but  as  the  weeds  that  lie 

Beneath  her  stately  tread. 


BALBOA. 


FROM  San  Domingo's  crowded  whan 

Fernandez'  vessel  bore, 
To  seek  in  unknown  lands  afar 

The  Indian's  golden  ore. 

And  hid  among  the  freighted  casks, 
Where  none  might  see  or  know, 

Was  one  of  Spain's  immortal  men, 
Three  hundred  years  ago  ! 


BALBOA.  253 

But  when  the  fading  town  and  land 

Had  dropped  below  the  sea, 
He  met  the  captain  face  to  face, 

And  not  a  fear  had  he  ! 

"  What  villain  thou  ?"  Fernandez  cried, 

"  And  wherefore  serve  us  so  ?" 
"  To  be  thy  follower/'  he  replied 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

He  wore  a  manly  form  and  face, 

A  courage  firm  and  bold, 
His  words  fell  on  his  comrades'  hearts, 

Like  precious  drops  of  gold. 

They  saw  not  his  ambitious  soul  j 

He  spoke  it  not — for  lo  ! 
He  stood  among  the  common  ranks 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

But  when  Fernandez'  vessel  lay 

At  golden  Darien, 
A  murmur,  born  of  discontent, 

Grew  loud  among  the  men : 


254  BALBOA. 

And  with  the  word  there  came  the  act ; 

And  with  the  sudden  blow 
They  raised  Balboa  from  the  ranks, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

And  while  he  took  command  beneath 

The  banner  of  his  lord, 
A  mighty  purpose  grasped  his  soul, 

As  he  had  grasped  the  sword. 

He  saw  the  mountain's  fair  blue  height 
Whence  golden  waters  flow ; 

Then  with  his  men  he  scaled  the  crags, 
Three  hundred  years  ago. 

He  led  them  up  through  tangled  brakes, 

The  rivulet's  sliding  bed, 
And  through  the  storm  of  poisoned  darts 

From  many  an  ambush  shed. 

He  gained  the  turret  crag — alone — 

And  wept !  to  see  below, 
An  ocean,  boundless  and  unknown. 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 


BALBOA.  255 

And  while  he  raised  upon  that  height 

The  banner  of  his  lord, 
The  mighty  purpose  grasped  him  still, 

As  still  he  grasped  his  sword. 

Then  down  he  rushed  with  all  his  men,  ' 

As  headlong  rivers  flow, 
And  plunged  breast-deep  into  the  sea, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

And  while  he  held  above  his  head 

The  conquering  flag  of  Spain, 
He  waved  his  gleaming  sword,  and  smote 

The  waters  of  the  main  : 

• 

For  Rome  !  for  Leon  !  and  Castile ! 

Thrice  gave  the  cleaving  blow ; 
And  thus  Balboa  claimed  the  sea, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 


LABOUR. 


"  LABOUR,  labour !"  sounds  the  anvil, 
"  Labour,  labour,  until  death  !" 

And  the  file,  with  voice  discordant^ 
"  Labour,  endless  labour  !"  saith. 

While  the  bellows  to  the  embers 
Speak  of  labour  in  each  breath. 

"  Labour,  labour !"  in  the  harvest, 
Saith  the  whetting  of  the  scythe, 

And  the  raill-wheel  tells  of  labour 
Under  waters  falling  blithe; 

"Labour,  labour !"  groaned  the  millstones, 
To  the  bands  that  whirl  and  writhe; 


LABOUR.  257 

And  the  woodman  tells  of  labour, 

In  his  echo-waking  blows ; 
In  the  forest,  in  the  cabin, 

'Tis  the  dearest  word  he  knows. 
"  Labour,  labour  !"  saith  the  spirit, 

And  with  labour  conies  repose. 

"  Labour  \"  saith  the  loaded  wagon, 

Moving  towards  the  distant  mart. 
"  Labour  !"  groans  the  heavy  steamer, 

As  she  cleaves  the  waves  apart. 
Beating  like  that  iron  engine, 

"  Labour,  labour  !"  cries  the  heart. 

Yes,  the  heart  of  man  cries  "  labour  V 

While  it  labours  in  the  breast. 
But  the  Ancient  and  Eternal, 

In  the  Word  which  he  hath  blest, 
Sayeth,  "  Six  days  shalt  thou  labour, 

On  the  seventh  thou  shalt  rest  I" 

Then  how  beautiful  at  evening, 

When  the  toilsome  week  is  done, 
To  behold  the  blacksmith's  anvil 

Die  in  darkness  with  the  sun ; 
And  to  think  the  doors  of  labour 

Are  all  closing  up  like  one. 
17 


THE  WINDY  NIGHT. 


ALOW  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 
How  the  midnight  tempests  howl ! 

With  a  dreary  voice,  like  the  dismal  tune 
Of  wolves  that  bay  at  the  desert  moon ; — 

Or  whistle  and  shriek 

Through  limbs  that  creak, 

"Tu-who!  tu-whit!" 

They  cry  and  flit, 
"  Tu-whit !  tu-who  1"  like  the  solemn  owl ! 

Alow  and  aloof, 
Over  the  roof, 
Sweep  the  moaning  winds  amain, 


THE   WINDY   NIGHT.  259 

And  wildly  dash 
The  elm  and  ash, 
Clattering  on  the  window-sash, 

With  a  clatter  and  patter, 
Like  hail  and  rain 
That  well  nigh  shatter 
The  dusky  pane ! 

Alow  and  aloof 

Over  the  roof, 
How  the  tempests  swell  and  roar  ! 

Though  no  foot  is  astir, 

Though  the  cat  and  the  cur 
Lie  dozing  along  the  kitchen  floor, 

There  are  feet  of  air 

On  every  stair  ! 

Through  every  hall — 

Through  each  gusty  door, 
There's  a  jostle  and  bustle, 
With  a  silken  rustle, 
Like  the  meeting  of  guests  at  a  festival ! 

Alow  and  aloof, 
Over  the  roof, 
How  the  stormy  tempests  swell ! 


260  THE   WINDY   NIGHT. 

And  make  the  vane 

On  the  spire  complain — 
They  heave  at  the  steeple  with  might  and  main 

And  burst  and  sweep 
Into  the  belfry,  on  the  bell ! 
They  smite  it  so  hard,  and  they  smite  it  so  well, 

That  the  sexton  tosses  his  arms  in  sleep, 
And  dreams  he  is  ringing  a  funeral  knell ! 


A  DIRGE  FOR  A  DEAD  BIRD. 


THE  cage  hangs  at  the  window, 
There's  the  sunshine  on  the  sill; 

But  where  the  form  and  where  the  voice 
That  never  till  now  were  still  ? 

The  sweet  voice  hath  departed 
From  its  feathery  home  of  gold, 

The  little  form  of  yellow  dust 
Lies  motionless  and  cold ! 

Oh,  where  amid  the  azure 

Hath  thy  sweet  spirit  fled  ? 
I  hold  my  breath  and  think  I  hear 

Its  music  overhead. 


262  A   DIRGE   FOR   A   DEAD   BIRD. 

Death  has  not  hushed  thy  spirit, 
Its  joy  shall  vanish  never; 

The  slightest  thrill  of  pleasure  born 
Lives  on  and  lives  for  ever ! 


Throughout  the  gloomy  winter 
Thy  soul  shed  joy  in  ours, 

As  it  told  us  of  the  summer-time 
Amid  the  land  of  flowers. 

But  now  thy  songs  are  silent, 
Except  what  memory  brings ; 

For  thou  hast  folded  death  within 
The  glory  of  thy  wings  ! 

And  here  thy  resting-place  shall  be 
Beneath  the  garden  bower ; 

A  bush  shall  be  thy  monument, 
Thy  epitaph  a  flower ! 


THE  WITHERING  LEAVES. 


THE  summer  is  gone  and  the  autumn  is  here, 
And  the  flowers  are  strewing  their  earthly  bier; 
A  dreary  mist  o'er  the  woodland  swims, 
While  rattle  the  nuts  from  the  windy  limbs : 
From  bough  to  bough  the  squirrels  run 
At  the  noise  of  the  hunter's  echoing  gun, 
And  the  partridge  flies  where  my  footstep  heaves 
The  rustling  drifts  of  the  withering  leaves. 

The  flocks  pursue  their  southern  flight — 
Some  all  the  day  and  some  all  night ; 
And  up  from  the  wooded  marshes  come 
The  sounds  of  the  pheasant's  feathery  drum. 


264  THE  WITHERING  LEAVES. 

On  the  highest  bough  the  mourner  crow 

Sits  in  his  funeral  suit  of  woe  : 

All  nature  mourns — and  my  spirit  grieves 

At  the  noise  of  my  feet  in  the  withering  leaves. 

Oh  !  I  sigh  for  the  days  that  have  passed  away, 
When  my  life  like  the  year  had  its  season  of  May ; 
When  the  world  was  all  sunshine  and  beauty  and  truth, 
And  the  dew  bathed  my  feet  in  the  valley  of  youth ! 
Then  my  heart  felt  its  wings,  and  no  bird  of  the  sky 
Sang  over  the  flowers  more  joyous  than  I. 
But  Youth  is  a  fable,  and  Beauty  deceives  \ — 
For  my  footsteps  are  loud  in  the  withering  leaves. 

And  I  sigh  for  the  time  when  the  reapers  at  morn 
Came  down  from  the  hill  at  the  sound  of  the  horn : 
Or  when  dragging  the  rake,  I  followed  them  out 
While  they  tossed  the  light  sheaves  with  their  laughter 

about ; 

Through  the  field,  with  boy-daring,  barefooted  I  ran ; 
But  the  stubbles  foreshadowed  the  path  of  the  man. 
Now  the  uplands  of  life  lie  all  barren  of  sheaves — 
While  my  footsteps  are  loud  in  the  withering  leaves ! 


THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 


WITHIN  his  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air ; 

Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of  ease, 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare. 

The  gray  barns  looking  from  their  hazy  hills 
O'er  the  dim  waters  widening  in  the  vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills, 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed  and  all  sounds  subdued, 
The  hills  seemed  farther  and  the  streams  sang  low; 

As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled  blow. 


2G6  THE    CLOSING    SCENE. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  in  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial  hue, 

Now  stood,  like  some  sad  beaten  host  of  old, 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 


On  slumbrous  wings  the  vulture  held  his  flight ; 

The  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  mate's  complaint; 
And  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  the  light, 

The  village  church-vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint. 

The  sentinel-cock  upon  the  hill-side  crew — 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  before, — 

Silent  till  some  replying  warder  blew 

His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jay,  within  the  elm's  tall  crest, 

Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her  unfledged  young, 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest, 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung : — 

Where  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves, 

The  busy  swallows,  circling  ever  near, 
Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 

An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous^  year ; — 


THE    CLOSING    SCENE. 

Where  every  bird  which  charmed  the  vernal  feast, 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at  morn. 

To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east, — 
All  now  was  songless,  empty,  and  forlorn. 

Alone  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the  quail, 

And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the  dreamy  gloom  j 

Alone  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers ; 

The  spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds  night  by  night  j 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by,  passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  cheerless  air, 

And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  Year  stood  there 
Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch ; — 

Amid  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene, 

The  white-haired  matron,  with  monotonous  tread, 

Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien, 
Sat,  like  a  Fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 


2G8  THE    CLOSING    SCENE. 

She  had  known  Sorrow, — he  had  walked  with  her. 
Oft  supped  and  broke  the  bitter  ashen  crust  • 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer  bloom, 
Her  country  summoned  and  she  gave  her  all ; 

And  twice  War  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume — 
Regave  the  swords  to  rust  upon  her  wall. 

Regave  the  swords, — but  not  the  hand  that  drew 

And  struck  for  Liberty  its  dying  blow, 
Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 

Fell  'mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on, 
Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 

Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous  tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped — her  head  was  bowed ; 

Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  his  hands  serene, — 
And  loving  neighbours  smoothed  her  careful  shroud, 

While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the  autumn  scene. 


THE  PILGRIM  TO  THE  LAND  OF  SONG. 


THE  dews  are  dry  upon  my  sandal-shoon 

Which  bathed  them  on  the  foreign  hills  of  song, 

And  now  beneath  the  white  and  sultry  noon 

They  print  the  dust  which  they  may  wear  too  long. 

The  flowers  by  delicate  fingers  wove  at  morn 
Around  my  pilgrim  staff  have  paled  and  died; 

Or  dropped  into  the  sand,  and  lie  forlorn, 
Mute  orphans  of  the  airy  mountain  side. 


270     THE  PILGRIM  TO  THE  LAND  OF  SONG. 

The  mingled  music  in  the  early  gale, 

Of  bees  and  birds,  and  maidens  among  flowers, 

The  brooks,  like  shepherds,  piping  down  the  vale, 
For  these  my  heart  remounts  the  morning  hours. 

Oh,  that  I  might  reclimb  the  dewy  dawn,         • 
And  with  the  stars  sit  down  by  Castalie, 

And  be  once  more  within  the  shade  withdrawn, 
Mantled  with  music  and  with  Poesy. 

Thou  blessed  bird  between  me  and  the  heaven, 
Thou  winged  censer,  swinging  through  the  air 

With  incense  of  pure  song, — how  hast  thou  driven 
One  to  the  past,  that  may  not  linger  there  ! 


Oh,  for  one  wild  annihilating  hour, 

Spent  with  the  minstrels  of  a  loftier  time ; 

Those  giants  among  bards,  whose  high  songs  tower 
Full  many  a  rood  o'er  all  our  new  sublime. 

Oh,  for  an  hour  with  Chaucer,  the  divine, 
The  morning  star  of  English  song  confessed; 

Ushering  a  day  whose  slow  but  sure  decline 
Fades  with  a  fitful  glimmering  in  the  west. 


THE   PILGRIM   TO    THE   LAND    OF    SONG.  271 

Oh,  for  that  rare  auroral  time,  which  brought 
The  light  of  Shakespeare,  and  the  glorious  few, 

Who,  in  their  glowing  robes  of  deathless  thought, 

Strode  knee-deep  through  Parnassian  flowers  and  dew. 

The  hot  sands  gleam  around  me,  and  I  thirst,— 
The  wayside  springs  have  sunk  into  themselves; 

And  even  the  little  blossoms  which  they  nursed, 
Have  vanished  from  their  side,  like  faithless  elves. 

Whence  lead  the  sandy  courses  of  these  rills  ? 

Do  they  foretell  a  mightier  stream  at  hand, 
With  voice  triumphant,  worthy  of  these  hills  ? 

Where  are  thy  rivers,  oh,  my  native  land? 

A  few  brave  souls  have  sparkled  into  sight, 

With  living  flashes  of  celestial  art ; 
Souls  who  might  flood  the  world  with  new  delight, 

Keep  sealed  the  deepest  fountains  of  the  heart. 

Oh,  for  a  cloud  to  oversweep  the  west, 

And  with  a  deluge  burst  these  deeper  springs,— 

A  voiceful  cloud,  with  grandeur  in  its  breast, 
And  lightning  on  its  far  impending  wings. 


272  THE   PILGRIM   TO   THE   LAND   OF   SONG. 

Oh,  for  one  mighty  heart  and  fearless  hand  ! 

For  such,  methinks,  my  country,  is  thy  due, — 
The  embodied  spirit  of  his  forest  land, 

Who,  scorning  not  the  old,  shall  sing  the  new. 

Here  will  I  rest  until  the  day  declines, 

A  voiceless  pilgrim  toward  the  land  of  song; 

And,  like  a  sentinel,  catch  the  herald  signs 

Of  him  whose  coming  hath  been  stayed  too  long. 


A  CUP  OF  WINE  TO  THE  OLD  YEAK. 


i. 


COME  hither,  love,  come  hither, 
And  sit  you  down  by  me ; 

And  hither  run,  my  little  one, 
And  climb  upon  my  knee. 

But  bring  the  flagon  first,  my  love, 
And  fill  to  friends  and  foes, 

And  let  the  old  year  dash  his  beard 

With  wine  before  he  goes. 
18 


274      A  CUP  OF  WINE  TO  THE  OLD  YEAR. 


II. 


Oh,  do  you  not  remember 

The  night  we  let  him  in, 
The  creaking  signs,  the  windy  blinds, 

The  universal  din ; — 
The  melancholy  sounds  which  bade 

The  poor  old  year  adieu ; 
The  sudden  clamour  and  the  bells 

That  welcomed  in  the  new  ? 
He  brought  to  us  a  world  of  hope 

Beneath  his  robe  of  snows  : — 
Then  let  the  old  year  dash  his  beard 

With  wine  before  he  goes. 

in. 

Oh,  then  the  year  was  young  and  fair, 

And  loved  all  joyful  things  ; 
And  under  his  bright  mantle  hid 

The  warning  of  his  wings. 
And  you  remember  how  the  Spring 

Beguiled  him  to  her  bowers  ; — 
How  Summer  next  exalted  him 

Unto  her  throne  of  flowers ; — 

M 


A  CUP  OF  WINE  TO  THE  OLD  YEAR.      275 

And  how  the  reaper,  Autumn,  crowned 

Him  'mid  the  sheaves  and  shocks, — 
You  still  may  see  the  tangled  straws 

In  his  disordered  locks. 
The  yellow  wheat,  the  crimson  leaves, 

With  purple  grapes,  were  there ; 
Till,  Bacchus-like,  he  wore  the  proof 

Of  plenty  'mid  his  hair — 
A  proof  that  wooes  in  harvest-homes 

Brown  Labour  to  repose  : — 

let  the  old  year  dash  his  beard 

With  wine  before  he  goes. 


IV. 

-at  soon  the  Winter  came  and  took 

His  glory  quite  away  : 
A  frosty  rime  o'erspread  his  chin, 

And  all  his  hair  went  gray; 
His  crown  has  fallen  to  his  feet, 

And  withers  where  he  stands, 
While  some  invisible  horror  shakes 

The  old  man  by  the  hands. 


276      A  CUP  OF  WINE  TO  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

Oh,  woo  him  from  his  cloud  of  grief 
And  from  his  dream  of  woes ; 

And  bid  the  old  year  dash  his  beard 
With  wine  before  he  goes. 


v. 

For  he  hath  brought  us  some  new  friends, 

And  made  the  old  more  dear ; 
And  shown  how  love  may  constant  prove, 

And  friendship  be  sincere. 
Though  it  may  be  some  venomed  tooth 

Hath  wrought  against  the  file , 
And  though  perchance  a  Janus'  face 

Hath  cursed  us  with  its  smile : — 
Come,  fill  the  goblet  till  its  rim 

With  Lethe  overflows ; 
The  year  shall  drown  their  memory 

With  wine  before  he  goes. 

VI. 

But  hark  !  a  music  nears  and  nears, — - 

As  if  the  singing  stars 
Were  driving  closer  to  the  earth 

In  their  triumphal  cars ! 


A  CUP  OF  WINE  TO  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

And  hark !  the  sudden  pealing  crash 

Of  one  who  will  not  wait, 
But  flings  into  the  ringing  dark 

Old  Winter's  crystal  gate. 
A  sigh  is  on  the  midnight  air, — 

A  ghost  is  on  the  lawn, — 
The  broken  goblet  strews  the  floor, — 

The  poor  old  year  is  gone  ! 


277 


THE  AWAKENING  YEAR. 


THE  blue-birds  and  the  violets 

Are  with  us  once  again, 
And  promises  of  summer  spot 

The  hill-side  and  the  plain. 

The  clouds  around  the  mountain  tops 

Are  riding  on  the  breeze, 
Their  trailing  azure  trains  of  mist 

Are  tangled  in  the  trees. 

The  snow-drifts,  which  have  lain  so  long, 

Haunting  the  hidden  nooks, 
Like  guilty  ghosts  have  slipped  away, 

Unseen,  into  the  brooks. 


THE   AWAKENING   YEAR.  279 

The  streams  are  fed  with  generous  rains, 

They  drink  the  wayside  springs, 
And  flutter  down  from  crag  to  crag, 

Upon  their  foamy  wings. 

Through  all  the  long  wet  nights  they  brawl, 

By  mountain  homes  remote, 
Till  woodmen  in  their  sleep  behold 

Their  ample  rafts  afloat. 

The  lazy  wheel  that  hung  so  dry 

Above  the  idle  stream, 
Whirls  wildly  in  the  misty  dark, 

And  through  the  miller's  dream. 

Loud  torrent  unto  torrent  calls, 

Till  at  the  mountain's  feet, 
Flashing  afar  their  spectral  light, 

The  noisy  waters  meet. 

They  meet,  and  through  the  lowlands  sweep, 

Toward  briny  bay  and  lake, 
Proclaiming  to  the  distant  towns 

"  The  country  is  awake  !" 


PROLOGUE  TO  AN  UNPUBLISHED  SERIO 
COMIC  POEM. 


INSCRIBED   TO   GEO.    H.    BOKER. 
I. 

DEAR  friend,  while  now  the  dews  are  shed 
Along  the  vintage  crowned  Rhine ; 

And  day  departs  with  purple  tread, 
Fresh  dripping  from  the  land  of  wine  : 

Here,  o'er  a  flask  of  Rudesheim, 

Your  shade  with  me  shall  drain  the  bowl, 
While  in  this  passing  cup  of  rhyme 

I  pour  the  fulness  of  my  soul. 

And  you  shall  drain  as  I  have  drained 
The  golden  goblet  of  your  song, 

Till  in  my  heart  a  pleasure  reigned, 
Like  Bacchus  'mid  his  wreathed  throng. 


PROLOGUE.  281 

II. 

And  blame  me  not,  that  while  she  sings 
My  Muse  not  always  strives  to  soar, — 

If,  folding  her  overwearied  wings, 
She  warbles  when  her  flight  is  o'er. 

It  may  be  that  more  oft  than  well 

I've  woke  the  melancholy  lyre ; 
Then  frown  not  if  I  break  the  spell, 

And  touch  at  times  a  lighter  wire. 

If  it  has  been  my  wont  to  quaff 

And  drain  the  chalice'  darker  tide, 
What  marvel,  if  I  stop  and  laugh 

To  see  the  satyrs  on  its  side  ? 

in. 

What,  though  you  bid  me  hoard  my  hours, 

And  say  you  see  my  life-star  pale, 
Have  I  not  walked  amid  the  flowers 

That  bloom  in  the  enchanted  vale  ? 

Though  I  had,  on  a  lotus  bed, 

Dreamed  the  wild  dreams  that  few  may  dare, 
Till  the  o'ershadowing  laurel  shed 

Its  leaves  of  poison  on  my  hair; 


282  PROLOGUE. 

I  do  believe  the  gods  are  just, — 

They  will  not  break  the  unfinished  chord, 

Nor  dash  the  goblet  in  the  dust 
Until  its  latest  draught  be  poured. 

IV. 

Then  fill,  dear  friend,  again  immerse 
The  lip  that  shall  approve  the  rhyme ; 

A  richer  beauty  gilds  the  verse 

When  seen  through  cups  of  Rudesheim. 

And  if  within  my  tuneful  task 
I  wake  too  oft  the  mournful  note, 

Then  pour  again  the  golden  flask, 
For  it  has  laughter  in  its  throat. 

| 

And  while  I  deem  you  sit  and  quaff, 

I  shall  no  longer  be  alone, 
Nor  think  my  dusty  pack  and  staff 

My  sole  companions  in  Cologne. 


VENICE. 


NIGHT  on  the  Adriatic,  night ! 

And  like  a  mirage  of  the  plain, 
With  all  her  marvellous  domes  of  light, 

Pale  Venice  looms  along  the  main. 

No  sound  from  the  receding  shore, — 
No  sound  from  all  the  broad  lagoon, 

Save  where  the  light  and  springing  oar 
Brightens  our  track  beneath  the  moon 

Or  save  where  yon  high  campanile 
Gives  to  the  listening  sea  its  chime ; 

Or  where  those  dusky  giants  wheel 
And  smite  the  ringing  helm  of  Time. 


284 


VENICE. 


'Tis  past, — and  Venice  drops  to  rest; 

Alas  !  hers  is  a  sad  repose, 
While  in  her  brain  and  on  her  breast 

Tramples  the  vision  of  her  foes. 

Erewhile  from  her  sad  dream  of  pain 

She  rose  upon  her  native  flood, 
And  struggled  with  the  Tyrant's  chain, 

Till  every  link  was  stained  with  blood. 

The  Austrian  pirate,  wounded,  spurned, 
Fled  howling  to  the  sheltering  shore, 

But,  gathering  all  his  crew,  returned 

And  bound  the  Ocean  Queen  once  more. 

;Tis  past, — and  Venice  prostrate  lies, — 
And,  snarling  round  her  couch  of  woes, 

The  watch-dogs,  with  the  jealous  eyes, 
Scowl  where  the  stranger  comes  or  goes. 

IT. 

Lo  !  here  awhile  suspend  the  oar ; 

Rest  in  the  Mocenigo's  shade, 
For  Genius  hath  within  this  door 

His  charmed,  though  transient,  dwelling  made. 


VENICE.  285 

Somewhat  of  "  Harold's"  spirit  yet, 

Methinks,  still  lights  these  crumbling  halls ; 

For  where  the  flame  of  song  is  set 
It  burns,  though  all  the  temple  falls. 

Oh,  tell  me  not  those  days  were  given 

To  Passion  and  her  pampered  brood ; 
Or  that  the  eagle  stoops  from  heaven 

To  dye  his  talons  deep  in  blood. 

I  hear  alone  his  deathless  strain 

From  sacred  inspiration  won, 
As  I  would  only  watch  again 

The  eagle  when  he  nears  the  sun. 

m. 

Oh,  would  some  friend  were  near  me  now, 
Some  friend  well  tried  and  cherished  long, 

To  share  the  scene ; — but  chiefly  thou, 
Sole  source'and  object  of  my  song. 

By  Olivola's  dome  and  tower, 

What  joy  to  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 
While  through  my  heart  this  sacred  hour 

Thy  voice  should  melt  like  mellow  wine. 


286  VENICE 

What  time  or  place  so  fit  as  this 
To  bid  the  gondolier  withhold, 

And  dream  through  one  soft  age  of  bliss 
The  olden  story,  never  old  ? 

The  domes  suspended  in  the  sky 
Swim  all  above  me  broad  and  fair; 

And  in  the  wave  their  shadows  lie, — 
Twin  phantoms  of  the  sea  and  air. 

O'er  all  the  scene  a  halo  plays, 
Slow  fading,  but  how  lovely  yet 

For  here  the  brightness  of  past  days 
Still  lingers,  though  the  sun  is  set. 

Oft  in  my  bright  and  boyish  hours 
I  lived  in  dreams  what  now  I  live, 

And  saw  these  palaces  and  towers 
In  all  the  light  romance  can  give. 

They  rose  along  my  native  stream, 

They  charmed  the  lakelet  in  the  glen ; 

But  in  this  hour  the  waking  dream 

More  frail  and  dream-like  seems  than  then. 


VENICE. 

A  matchless  scene,  a  matchless  night, 

A  tide  below,  a  moon  above; 
An  hour  for  music  and  delight ; 

For  gliding  gondolas  and  love  ! 

But  here,  alas  !  you  hark  in  vain, — 
"When  Venice  fell  her  music  died ; 

And  voiceless  as  a  funeral  train, 

The  blackened  barges  swim  the  tide. 

The  harp,  which  Tasso  loved  to  wake, 
Hangs  on  the  willow  where  it  sleeps, 

And  while  the  light  strings  sigh  or  break, 
Pale  Venice  by  the  water  weeps. 


IV. 


;Tis  past, — and  weary  droops  the  wing 
That  thus  hath  borne  me  idly  on ; 

The  thoughts  I  have  essayed  to  sing 
Are  but  as  bubbles  touched  and  gone. 

But  Venice,  cold  his  soul  must  be, 
Who,  looking  on  thy  beauty,  hears 

The  story  of  thy  wrongs,  if  he 
Is  moved  to  neither  song  nor  tears. 


288  VENICE. 

To  glide  by  temples  fair  and  proud, 
Between  deserted  marble  walls, 

Or  see  the  hireling  foeman  crowd 
Rough-shod  her  noblest  palace  halls ; 

To  know  her  left  to  Vandal  foes 

Until  her  nest  be  robbed  and  gone, — 

To  see  her  bleeding  breast,  which  shows 
How  dies  the  Adriatic  swan ; — 

To  know  that  all  her  wings  are  shorn ; 

That  Fate  has  written  her  decree, 
That  soon  the  nations  here  shall  mourn 

The  lone  Palmyra  of  the  sea ; — 

Where  waved  her  vassal  flags  of  yore 
By  valour  in  the  Orient  won ; 

To  see  the  Austrian  vulture  soar, 
A  blot  against  the  morning  sun ; — 

To  hear  a  rough  and  foreign  speech 
Commanding  the  old  ocean  mart, — 

Are  mournful  sights  and  sounds  that  reach, 
And  wake  to  pity,  all  the  heart. 


NIGHTFALL. 


IN   MEMORY   OP   A  POET. 


I  SAW  in  the  silent  afternoon 

The  overladen  sun  go  down ; 
While,  in  the  opposing  sky,  the  moon, 

Between  the  steeples  of  the  town, 

Went  upward,  like  a  golden  scale 

Outweighed  by  that  which  sank  beyond 

And  over  the  river,  and  over  the  vale, 
With  odours  from  the  lily -pond, 

The  purple  vapours  calmly  swung ; 

And,  gathering  in  the  twilight  trees, 
The  many  vesper  minstrels  sung 

Their  plaintive  mid-day  memories; 
19 


290  NIGHTFALL. 

Till,  one  by  one,  they  dropped  away 
From  music  into  slumber  deep ; 

And  now  the  very  woodlands  lay 

Folding  their  shadowy  wings  in  sleep. 

Oh,  Peace  !  that  like  a  vesper  psalm 
Hallows  the  daylight  at  its  close ; 

Oh,  Sleep  1  that  like  the  vapour's  calm 
Mantles  the  spirit  in  repose, — 

Through  all  the  twilight  falling  dim, 

Through  all  the  song  which  passed  away, 

Ye  did  not  stoop  your  wings  to  him 
Whose  shallop  on  the  river  lay 

Without  an  oar,  without  a  helm ; — 
His  great  soul  in  his  marvellous  eyes 

Gazing  on  from  realm  to  realm 

Through  all  the  world  of  mysteries ! 


L'ENVOI. 


I  BRING  the  flower  you  asked  of  me, 
A  simple  bloom,  nor  bright  nor  rare, 

But  like  a  star  its  light  will  be 
Within  the  darkness  of  your  hair. 

It  grew  not  in  those  guarded  bowers 

Where  rustling  fountains  sift  their  spray, 

But  gladly  drank  the  common  showers 
Of  dew  beside  the  dusty  way. 

It  may  be  in  its  humble  sphere 
It  cheered  the  pilgrim  of  the  road, 

And  shed  as  blest  an  alms,  as  e'er 

The  generous  hand  of  Wealth  bestowed. 


292  L'ENVOI. 

Or  though,  save  mine,  it  met  no  eye, 
But  secretly  looked  up  and  grew, 

And  from  the  loving  air  and  sky 
Its  little  store  of  beauty  drew. 


And  though  it  breathed  its  small  perfumes 
So  low  they  did  not  woo  the  bee, — 

Exalted,  how  it  shines  and  blooms, 
Above  all  flowers,  since  worn  by  thee. 

And  thus  the  song  you  bade  me  sing, 
May  be  a  rude  and  artless  lay, 

And  yet  it  grew  a  sacred  thing 
To  bless  me  on  Life's  dusty  way. 

And  unto  this,  my  humble  strain, 
How  much  of  beauty  shall  belong, 

If  thou  wilt  in  thy  memory  deign 
To  wear  my  simple  flower  of  song ! 


SYLVIA; 


OR, 


THE  LAST  SHEPHERD 


AN  ECLOGUE. 


AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


TO 


C* 


To  you,  my  friend,  whose  youthful  feet  have  known 
The  same  bright  hills  and  valleys  as  my  own ; 
Whose  eye  learned  beauty  from  the  selfsame  scene, 
Which,   still  remembered,  keeps  our  pathways  green  ; 
From,  the  same  minstrel-stream  and  poet-birds 
Learned  what  I  oft  would  fain  recall  in  words: — 
To  you  I  bring  this  handful  of  wild  flowers, 
By  memory  plucked  from  those  dear  fields  of  ours  ; 
And  when  their  freshness  and  their  perfume  die. 
On  friendship's  shrine  still  let  them  fondly  lie. 


SYLVIA; 


OR, 


THE    LAST    SHEPHERD 


PRELUDE. 


THE    MERRY    MOWERS. 

"HERE    mid  the  clover's  crimson  realm 

We'll  rest  us  through  the  glowing  noon, 
Beneath  this  broad  and  liberal  elm, 
Slow  nodding  to  his  hundredth  June. 

"On  this  low  branch  our  scythes  shall  sway, 

Fresh  reeking  from  the  field  in  bloom; 
While,  breathing  o'er  the  new-mown  hay, 
The  air  shall  fan  us  with  perfume. 


300  SYLVIA;  OR, 

"And  here  the  cottage  maid  shall  spread 

The  viands  on  the  stainless  cloth, — 
The  golden  prints,  the  snow-white  bread, 
The  chilly  pitcher  crowned  with  froth. 

"And  you,  fair  youth,  whose  shepherd  look 

Brings  visions  of  the  pastoral  time, — 
Your  hay-fork  shouldered  like  a  crook, 

Your  speech  the  natural  voice  of  rhyme, — 

"Although  the  world  is  far  too  ripe 

To  hark, —  or,  hearkening,  would  disdain, — 
Come,  pour  along  your  fancied  pipe 
The  music  of  some  rustic  strain. 

"We'll  listen  as  we  list  the  birds, — 

And,  being  pleased,  will  hold  it  wise; 
And  deem  we  sit  mid  flocks  and  herds 
Beneath  the  far  Arcadian  skies." 


THE  LAST   SHEPHERD.  301 

Thus  spake  the  mowers;  while  the  maid, 

The  fairest  daughter  of  the  realm, 
Stood  twining  in  the  happy  shade 

A  wreath  of  mingled  oak  and  elm. 

And  this,  with  acorns  interwound, 

And  violets  inlaid  with  care, 
Fame's  temporary  priestess  bound 

In  freshness  round  her  druids  hair. 

The  breeze  with  sudden  pleasure  played, 
And,  dancing  in  from  bough  to  bough, 

Let  one  slant  sunbeam  down,  which  stayed 
A  moment  on  the  crowned  brow. 

The  birds,  as  with  a  newborn  thrill, 

Sang  as  they  only  sing  at  morn, 
While  through  the  noon  from  hill  to  hill 

Echoed  the  winding  harvest-horn. 


302  SYLVIA;  OR,  THE  LAST  SHEPHERD. 

With  upturned  face  and  lips  apart, 
He  mused  a  little,  but  not  long; 

For  clustered  in  his  boundless  heart 
Sang  all  the  morning-stars  of  song. 


THE    ECLOGUE. 


IN  middle  of  a  noble  space, 

Of  antique  wood  and  boundless    plain. 
Queen  Sylvia,  regent  of  all  grace, 
Held  long-descended  reign. 

The  diadem  her  forehead  wore 

Was  her  bright  hair,  a  golden  band; 
And  she,  as  sceptre,  ever  bore 
A  distaff  in  her  hand. 


304  SYLVIA;  OR, 

In  russet  train,  with  rustling  tread, 

She  walked  like  morning,  dewy-eyed, 
And  like  Saint  Agnes,  ever  led 
A  white  lamb  at  her  side. 

And  she  to  all  the  flowery  land 

Was  dear  as  are  the  summer  skies; 
And  round  her  waving  mulberry-wand 
Swarmed  all  the  butterflies. 

Queen  was  she  of  the  flaxen  skein, 
And  empress  of  the  snowy  fleece, 
And  o'er  the  silkworm's  small  domain 
Held  guard  in  days  of  peace. 


THE  LAST   SHEPHERD.  305 


II. 


To  own  her  sway  the  woods  were  proud, 

The  solemn  forest,  wreathed  and  old ; 
To  her  the  plumed  harvests  bowed 
Their  rustling  ranks  of  gold. 

Mantled  in  majesty  complete, 

She  walked  among  her  flocks  and  herds; 
Where'er  she  moved,  with  voices  sweet, 
Sang  all  her  laureate  birds. 

20 


SO  6  SYLVTAJ    OR, 

All  happy  sounds  waved  softly  near, 

With  perfume  from  the  fields  of  dew; 
From  every  hill,  bold  chanticleer 
His  silver  clarion  blew. 

The  bees  her  honey-harvest  reaped, 

The  fields  were  murmurous  with  their  glee; 
And  loyal  to  her  hives,  tLey  heaped 
Her  waxen  treasury. 

All  pleasures  round  her  loved  to  press, 
To  sing  their  sweetest  madrigals;  — 
She  never  knew  the  weariness 

Which  dwells  in  grander  halls. 


THE  LAST    SHEPHERD.  307 


m. 


What  time  came  in  the  welcome  spring, 

The  happy  maiden  looked  abroad, 
And  saw  her  lover  gayly  fling 
The  flax  athwart  the  sod. 

Hither  and  thither  the  yellow  seed 

Young  Leon  sprinkled  o'er  the  plain, 
As  a  farmer  to  his  feathery  breed 
Full  hands  of  golden  grain. 


308  SYLVIA;    OR, 

As  o'er  the  yielding  mould  lie  swayed, 

He  whistled  to  his  measured  tread 
A  happy  tune;   for  he  saw  the  maid 
Spinning  the  future  thread. 

Or  saw  the  shuttle  in  her  room 

Fly,  like  a  bird,  from  hand  to  hand; 
And  then  his  arm,  as  at  a  loom, 
Swung  wider  o'er  the  land. 

He  wondered  what  the  woof  would  be, — 

Or  for  the  poor,  or  for  the  proud? 
A  bridal  garment  fluttering  free? 
Or  formal  winding-shroud? 


THE    LAST    SHEPHERD.  309 


IV. 


THEN  May  recrossed  the  southern  hill,— - 

Her  heralds  thronged  the  elms  and  eaves 
And  Nature,  with  a  sudden  thrill, 
Burst  all  her  buds  to  leaves. 

Loud  o'er  the  slope  a  streamlet  flung 

Fresh  music  from  its  mountain  springs, 
As  if  a  thousand  birds  there  sung 
And  flashed  their  azure  wings. 


310  SYLVIA;  OR, 

"Flow  on,"  the  maiden  sang,  "and  whirl, 
Sweet  stream,  your  music  o'er  the  hill, 
And  touch  with  your  light  foot  of  pearl 

The  wheel  of  yonder  mill.1' 

* 

It  touched  the  wheel,  and  in  the  vale 

Died  from  the  ear  and  passed  from  view,— 
Like  a  singing  bird  that  is  seen  to  sail 
Into  the  distant  blue; — 

Died  where  the  river  shone  below, 

Where  white  sails  through  the  vapour  glowed. 
Like  great  archangels  moving  slow 
On  some  celestial  road. 


THE   LAST   SHEPHERD.  311 


V. 


How  sweet  it  is  when  twilight  wakes 

A  many-voiced  eve  in  May, — 
When  Sylvia's  western  casement  takes 
The  farewell  flame  of  day: 

When  cattle  from  the  upland  lead 

Or  drive  their  lengthening  shadows  home; 
While  bringing  from  the  odorous  mead 
Deep  pails  of  snowy  foam. 


312  SYLVIA;  OR, 

The  milkmaid  sings,  and,  while  she  stoops, 

Her  hands  keep  time;  the  night-hawk's  wail 
Pierces  the  twilight,  till  he  swoops 
And  mocks  the  sounding  pail. 

Then  sings  the  robin,  he  who  wears 

A  sunset  memory  on  his  breast, 
Pouring  his  vesper  hymns  and  prayers 
To  the  red  shrine  of  the  west. 

Deep  in  the  grove  the  woodland  sprites 

Start  into  frequent  music  brief; 
And  there  the  whip-poor-will  recites 
The  ballad  of  his  grief. 

The  ploughs  turn  home;   the  anvils  cease; 

The  forge  has  faded  with  the  sun; 
The  heart  of  the  loom  is  soothed  to  peace, 
And  the  toiling  day  is  done. 


THE   LAST    SHEPHERD. 


313 


VI. 


A  LOVER'S  heart  hath  no  repose; 
;Tis  ever  thundering  in  his  ear 
The  story  of  his  joys  and  woes,  — 

The  light  remote,  the  shadow  near. 


And  Leon,  penning  his  fleecy  stock, 

Felt  hope  as  painful  as  despair, 
While  one  by  one  heaven's  starry  flock 
Came  up  the  fields  of  air. 


314  SYLVIA;    OR, 

True  shepherd, — Kke  the  men  of  old, — 

He  knew  to  call  each  as  it  came; 
And,  as  his  flock  leaped  in  the  fold, 
Each  had  a  starry  name. 

,     There,  clustered  close  in  slumbrous  peace, 
He  gazed  on  them  with  shepherd  pride, 
And  saw  each  deep  and  pillowy  fleece 
Through  Sylvia's  soft  hands  glide. 

In  that  still  hour,  where  none  might  mark, 

He  leaned  against  the  shadowy  bars ; 
Soft  tearlight  blurred  the  deepening  dark 
-     And  doubled  all  the  stars. 

And,  starlike,  through  the  valley  dim 
The  tapers  shot  their  guiding  rays ; 
But  one  there  was  which  seemed  to  him 
To  set  the  night  ablaze. 


THE    LAST   SHEPHERD.  315 

To  his  impatient  feet  it  flowed, 

A  stream  of  gold  along  the  sod; 
Then  like  the  road  to  glory  glowed 
The  love-lit  path  he  trod! 


316  SYLVIA;  OR, 


vn. 


OUT  of  her  tent,  as  one  afraid, 

The  moon  along  the  purple  field 
Stole  like  an  oriental  maid, 
Her  beauty  half  concealed. 

And,  peering  with  her  vestal  torch 

Between  the  vines  at  Sylvia's  door, 
She  saw  two  shadows  in  the  porch 
Pass  and  repass  the  floor. 


THE   LAST   SHEPHERD.  317 

On  the  far  hill  the  dreary  hound 

Saddened  the  evening  with  his  howl; 
In  the  near  grove— a  shuddering  sound- 
Echoed  the  ominous  owl. 

Three  times,  as  at  a  robber  band, 

The  guardian  mastiff  leaped  his  chain; 
Three  times  the  hand  in  Leon's  hand 
Grew  chill  and  shook  with  pain. 

And  Sylvia  said,  "  These,  Leon,  these 

Are  the  dismal  sounds  which  three  nights  past 
Came  herald  to  the  mysteries 
Of  dreams  too  sad  to  last. 


318  SYLVIA;    OB, 


VIII. 


"  FIRST  of  the  mournful  sights,  I  saw 

Our  flocks  fly  bleating  from  a  hound, 
And  many  a  one  his  savage  jaw 

Dragged  bleeding  to  the  ground. 

"The  rest  sought  shelter  in  despair, 

And  in  a  brake  were  robbed  and  torn; 
The  cruel  hound  had  an  ally  there 
In  every  brier  and  thorn. 


THE   LAST    SHEPHERD.  319 

"In  nightmare  chains  my  feet  were  set, 

For  I  could  neither  move  nor  scream : — 
Oh,  Leon,  it  makes  me  tremble  yet, 
Although  'twas  but  a  dream ! 

"Anon  I  struggled  forth,  and  took 

From  off  our  mastiff's  neck  the  chain; 
He  leaped  the  gate,  he  leaped  the  brook, 
And  snarled  across  the  plain. 

uThen  how  they  fought!     My  sight  grew  dim, 

In  straining  to  the  field  remote  : 
At  length  he  threw  that  bloodhound  grim, 
And  held  him  by  the  throat! 


320  SYLVIA;  OR, 


IX. 


"AND  then  I  heard  your  neighing  train, — 
Its  silver  bells  rang  down  the  breeze,— 
And  saw  the  white  arch  of  your  wain 
Between  the  roadside  trees. 

"  Announced  as  by  an  ocean  storm, 

A  horseman  from  the  east  in  ire 
Rode  to  retrieve  his  hound:  his  form 
Was  robed  in  scarlet  fire. 


THE   LAST    SHEPHERD.  321 

"But  when  you  saw  our  murdered  field — 

And  saw  in  midst  the  struggling  hounds — 
And  him  whose  sword  made  threat  to  wield 
Destruction  o'er  our  grounds;  — 

"You  loosed  the  best  steed  of  your  team, 

And  seized  the  weapon  nearest  hand, — 
Then  sped  the  hill  and  leaped  the  stream, 
And  bade  the  invader  stand. 

"Then  came  the  horrid  sight  and  sound: 

At  length  I  saw  the  foe  retreat, 
And  swooned  for  joy;  but  waking  found 
You  bleeding  at  my  feet ! 

21 


322  SYLVIA;  OR, 


X. 


"I  bore  you  in;    with  my  own  hand 

I  tended  you  long  nights  and  days; 
And  heard  with  pride  how  all  the  land 
Was  ringing  with  your  praise. 

But  when  your  deepest  wounds  were  well,- 

This,  Leon,  is  the  saddest  part, — 
A  lady  came  with  witching  spell, 

And  claimed  you,  hand  and  heart. 


THE    LAST    SHEPHERD.  323 

"She  came  in  all  her  southern  pride; 

And,  though  she  was  as  morning  bright, 
An  Afric  bondmaid  at  her  side 
Stooped  like  a  starless  night. 

"She  moved  as  she  were  monarch  born, 

And  smiled  her  sweetest  smile  on  you; 
But  scorned  me  with  her  lofty  scorn, 
Until  I  shrank  from  view. 

"When  you  were  gone,  all  hope  had  flown, — 

Grief  held  to  me  her  bitter  crust; 
My  distaff  droped,  my  loom  o'erthrown 
Lay  trampled  in  the  dust. 


324  SYLVIA;  OR, 


XL 


"I  KNOW  such  dreams  are  empty,  vain; 

And  yet  may  rest  upon  the  heart, 
Like  chillness  of  a  summer  rain 
After  the  clouds  depart. 

"And  still  the  dream  went  on: — each  hour 

Some  new-born  wonder  filled  the  dream  :— 
First  came  the  labourers  to  o'erpower 
And  chain  our  little  stream. 


THE   LAST    SHEPHERD.  325 

"A  giant  prison-wall  they  made; — 

Our  brook,  recoiling  in  her  fears. 
Over  our  meadows  wildly  strayed, 

And  drowned  them  with  her  tears. 

"And  then  they  reared  a  stately  home, — 

Not  one,  but  many,  for  this  queen; 

The  gleam  of  tower  and  spire  and  dome 

Through  all  the  land  was  seen. 

"And  when  her  orgies  swelled  the  breeze, 

Loudly  a  mile  away  or  more 
Was  borne  the  voice  of  her  revelries, 
The  rattle  and  the  roar. 


326  SYLVIA;  OR, 


xn. 

• 


"You  grew  to  her  more  fond  and  near, 

And  mine  no  more !     Ah,  never  more 
You  brought  the  antlered  forest  deer 
And  laid  it  at  my  door. 

"And  ever  round  the  hall  and  hearth, 

These  branching  emblems  of  the  chase 
Mocked  me  with  memory  of  the  mirth 
Which  once  made  bright  the  place. 


THE   LAST   SHEPHERD.  327 

"No  more  'neath  autumn's  sun  or  cloud 

You  paid  to  me  the  pleasing  tax 
Of  labour  at  the  swingle  loud, 
Breaking  the  brittle  flax. 

"No  more  when  winter  walked  our  clime 

We  woke  the  evening-lighted  room, 
With  laugh  and  song,  still  keeping  time 
To  whirring  wheel  or  loom. 

"Nor  blazed  the  great  logs  as  of  yore, 

Cheered  with  the  cricket's  pastoral  song; 
The  cider  and  the  nuts  were  o'er, 
And  gone  the  jovial  throng 

"The  hearth  was  basely  narrowed  down; 

The  antlered  walls  were  stripped  and  bare; 
The  oaken  floor  no  more  was  known, — 
A  foreign  woof  was  there. 


328  SYLVIA;   OR, 


XIII. 


"AND  never  more  your  ringing  team 

Made  music  in  our  happy  dale; 
Instead,  an  earthquake  winged  with  steam 
Roared  through  our  sundered  vale. 

"And  where  yon  river  seaward  runs, 

The  white-winged  barges  ceased  to  roam; 
Instead,  came  great  leviathans 

Trampling  the  waves  to  foam. 


THE   LAST   SHEPHERD.  329 

"And  there  was  rushing  to  and  fro, 

As  if  the  nation  suddenly 
Made  haste  to  meet  some  foreign  foe 
Impending  on  the  sea. 

"And  all  this  horrid  roar  and  rage — 
The  clash  of  steel  and  flash  of  ire 
Was  the  giant  march  of  the  Conquering  Age 
Flapping  his  flags  of  fire  ! 

"He  strode  the  land  from  east  to  west: — 

Then  death  in  my  despair  was  sweet, 
And  soon  above  my  buried  breast 
Trampled  the  world's  loud  feet. 

"The  dreary  dream  is  past  and  told; 
But,  Leon;  swear  to  still  be  true, 
Even  though  with  charms  a  thousandfold 
A  queen  should  smile  on  you." 


330  SYLVIA;  OR, 

This,  Leon  swore, — swore  still  to  pay 

The  fealty  he  long  had  borne; 
The  years  which  followed  best  can  say 
If  Leon  was  forsworn. 


THE   LAST    SHEPHERD.  331 


XIV. 


"FORSWORN!"     The  fields  all  sighed,  "forsworn!" 

When  Sylvia  pined  into  her  shroud; 
And  all  the  pastures  lay  forlorn, 
O'ershadowed  with  a  cloud. 

The  homesteads  wept  with  childish  sob, 

"Forsworn!"  and  every  wheel  was  dumb; 
The  looms  were  muffled,  each  low  throb 
Was  like  a  funeral  drum. 


332  SYLVIA;  OR, 

The  maidens  hid  in  Maytime  grots, 

Their  distaffs  twined  with  blossoms  sweet, 
With  pansies  and  forget-me-nots. 
And  laid  them  at  her  feet. 

"Forsworn!"  they  sighed,  and  sprinkled  o'er 
Her  breast  the  loveliest  flowers  of  May; 
And  then  these  fair  pall-bearers  bore 
Her  gentle  dust  away. 

"Forsworn!"     The  gran  dams  moved  about 

Like  useless  shadows  in  their  gloom; 
And  oft  they  brought  their  distaffs  out, 
And  sat  beside  her  tomb. 

"Forsworn!"     All  nature  sighs,  "forsworn!" 

And  Sylvia's  is  a  nameless  grave; 
The  blossoms  which  above  her  mourn 
Mid  tangled  grasses  wave. 


THE   LAST    SHEPHERD.  333 


XV. 


PROUD  Leon  sits  beside  his  bride, 

His  chariot  manned  by  Nubian  grooms,- 
His  lady  rustling  in  the  pride 
Of  stuffs  of  foreign  looms. 

Secure,  important,  and  serene, 

The  master  of  a  wide  domain, 
He  looks  abroad  with  lordly  mien, — 
This  once  poor  shepherd  swain. 


334  SYLVIA;  OR,  THE  LAST  SHEPHERD. 

You  scarce  would  think  to  see  him  now, 

In  all  his  grandeur  puffed  and  full, 
He  e'er  had  guided  flock  or  plough 
In  simple,  homespun  wool. 

The  chain  of  gold  is  still  a  chain; — 

There  may  be  moments  he  would  pay 
The  bulk  of  all  his  marvelous  gain 
For  what  has  passed  away! 


CONCLUSION. 


THE    MOURNFUL    MOWERS. 

THUS  sang  the  shepherd  crowned  at  noon, 
And  every  breast  was  heaved  with  sighs ;- 

Attracted  by  the  tree  and  tune, 
The  winged  singers  left  the  skies. 

Close  to  the  minstrel  sat  the  maid; 

His  song  had  drawn  her  fondly  near: 
Her  large  and  dewy  eyes  betrayed 

The  secret  to  her  bosom  dear. 


336  SYLVIA;  OR, 

The  factory  people  through  the  fields, 
Pale  men  and  maids  and  children  pale, 

Listened,  forgetful  of  the  wheels, 

Till  the  loud  summons  woke  the  vale. 

And  all  the  mowers  rising  said, 

"The  world  has  lost  its  dewy  prime; 

Alas !  the  Golden  age  is  dead, 
And  we  are  of  the  Iron  time ! 

"The  wheel  and  loom  have  left  our  homes,- 

Our  maidens  sit  with  empty  hands, 
Or  toil  beneath  yon  roaring  domes, 
And  fill  the  factory's  pallid  bands. 

"The  fields  are  swept  as  by  a  war, 

Our  harvests  are  no  longer  blithe ; 
Yonder  the  iron  mower's  car 

Comes  with  his  devastating  scythe. 


THE    LAST   SHEPHERD.  337 

"They  lay  us  waste  by  fire  and  steel, 

Besiege  us  to  our  very  doors; 

Our  crops  before  the  driving  wheel 

Fall  captive  to  the  conquerors. 

"The  pastoral  age  is  dead,  is  dead! 

Of  all  the  happy  ages  chief; 
Let  every  mower  bow  his  head? 
In  token  of  sincerest  grief. 

"And  let  our  brows  be  thickly  bound 

With  every  saddest  flower  that  blows; 
And  all  our  scythes  be  deeply  wound 
With  every  mournful  leaf  that  grows." 

Thus  sang  the  mowers;   and  they  said, 
"The  world  has  lost  its  dewy  prime; 
Alas !  the  Golden  age  is  dead, 

And  we  are  of  the  Iron  time  V 
22 


338  SYLVIA;  OR, 

Each  wreathed  his  scythe  and  twined  his  head; 

They  took  their  slow  way  through  the  plain : 
The  minstrel  and  the  maiden  led 

Across  the  fields  the  solemn  train. 

The  air  was  rife  with  clamorous  sounds, 
Of  clattering  factory — thundering  forge, — 

Conveyed  from  the  remotest  bounds 
Of  smoky  plain  and  mountain  gorge. 

Here,  with  a  sudden  shriek  and  roar, 
The  rattling  engine  thundered  by; 

A  steamer  past  the  neighbouring  shore 
Convulsed  the  river  and  the  sky. 

The  brook  that  erewhile  laughed  abroad, 
And  o'er  one  light  wheel  loved  to  play, 

Now,  like  a  felon,  groaning  trod 

Its  hundred  treadmills  night  and  day. 


THE   LAST    SHEPHERD. 

The  fields  were  tilled  with  steeds  of  steam, 
Whose  fearful  neighing  shook  the  vales; 

Along  the  road  there  rang  no  team, — 
The  barns  were  loud,  but  not  with  flails. 

And  still  the  mournful  mowers  said, 

"The  world  has  lost  its  dewy  prime; 
Alas !  the  Golden  age  is  dead, 
And  we  are  of  the  Iron  time !" 


miSmiw. 


THE   BLESSED  DEAD. 


OH,  happy  childhood !   tender  buds  of  spring 
Touched  in  the  Maytime  by  a  wandering  frost; 

Ye  have  escaped  the  summer's  sultry  wing: 

No  drought  hath  parched  you,  and  no  wind  hath  tossed, 

Shaking  the  pearls  of  morning  from  your  breast : 
Ye  have  been  gathered  ere  your  sweets  were  lost, 

Ere  winged  passions  stole  into  your  rest 
To  rob  the  heart  of  all  its  dewy  store. 

Now  in  the  endless  Maytime  overhead, 
In  starry  gardens  of  the  azure  shore, 
Ye  bloom  in  light,  and  are  for  evermore 
The  blessed  dead. 


THE   BLESSED   DEAD. 

Ye  youths  and  maidens,  dear  to  Joy  and  Love, 
But  fallen  midway  between  morn  and  noon, — 

Or  bird-like  flown,  as  if  some  longing  dove 

Should  seek  a  better  clime  while  yet  'tis  June, 

Leaving  our  fields  forlorn !     Oh,  happy  flight ! 
Gone  while  your  hearts  are  full  of  summer  tune, 

And  ignorant  of  the  autumnal  blight, — 

Ere  yet  a  leaf  hath  withered  on  the  bough 

Or  innocent  rose  hath  drooped  its  dying  head: 
Gone  with  the  virgin  lilies  on  your  brow, 
Ye,  singing  in  immortal  youth,  are  now 
The  blessed  dead. 

And  ye,  who  in  the  harvest  of  your  years 
Were  stricken  when  the  sun  was  in  mid  air, 

And  left  the  earth  bedewed  at  noon  with  tears, — 
Ye  have  known  all  of  life  that  is  most  fair, 

The  laugh  of  April  and  the  summer  bloom. 
Ye  with  the  orange-blossoms  in  your  hair, 

Who  sleep  in  bridal  chambers  of  the  tomb ', 


THE    BLESSED    DEAD.  345 

Or  ye,  who  with  the  sickle  in  the  hand 
Have  bowed  amid  the  sheaves  the  manly  head, 
And  left  the  toil  unto  a  mournful  band, — 
Ye  all  are  numbered  in  yon  resting  land, 
The  blessed  dead. 

And  ye,  who  like  the  stately  upland  oak 
Breasted  the  full  allotted  storms  of  time, 

And  took  new  strength  from  every  gusty  stroke, — 
And  ye,  who  like  a  vine  long  taught  to  climb 

And  weigh  its  native  branches  with  ripe  fruit, — 
Much  have  ye  suffered  'neath  the  frosty  rime 

Which  autumn  brings  and  winter's  loud  dispute ! 
But  now,  transplanted  in  the  fields  afar, 

Your  age  is  like  a  withered  foliage  shed, — 

And  where  Youth's  fountain  sparkles  like  a  star, 
This  have  ye  learned,  they  only  live  who  are 
The  blessed  dead. 


THE  PHANTOM  LEADERS. 


BY  starlight  they  rode  in  their  speed  and  their  might, 
A  warrior  host  sweeping  down  through  the  night, — 
An  army  of  spectres,  they  sped  on  the  wind, 
With    swords    piercing    front    and    plumes    streaming 

behind ; 

On  the  highways  of  air  they  were  led  as  by  Mars, 
While   their   steeds  shod  with   thunder  seemed  tramp 
ling  the  stars ! 
Like   a  fleet    in    a    gale,    they    careered    through   the 

night, 

And   the   path  where   they   passed   flashed  with   phos 
phorous  light. 


THE   PHANTOM   LEADERS. 


347 


In  the  front  galloped  Brutus,  a  foe  to  all  peace, 

• 

His  blade  gleaming  red  with   the   blood  of  Lucrece; 
And,  turning   towards   Rome,   bent   his  way  down   the 

heaven, 

Repeating  the  oath  which  of  old  he  had  given. 
"These  modern  Tarquins  must  fall!"  was  his  cry; 
"By  the   blade    of  their   own   bloody  guilt   they  shall 

die  I" 

And,  strange  though  it  be,  there  Mohammed  was  seen, 
His  Arab's  mane  sweeping  his  mantle  of  green, 
And  the  watchwords  engraved  on  his  drawn  scimetar 
Were  "Allah,  il  Allah!"  each  letter  a  star. 
Gustavus-Adolphus  of  Sweden  was  there, 
As  at  Liitzen  he  rode  with  his  battle-blade  bare. 
And,  like  their  own  turbulent  torrents  let  loose 
By  a  storm  in  the  Highlands,  sped  Wallace  and  Bruce. 
Sobieski,  the  Pole,  gave  his  charger  the  rein, 
Every  stroke  of  whose  hoof  broke  a  fetter  in  twain. 
There  was  Olaf  of  Norway,  whose  mandate  and  sword 
The  heathen  struck  down  in  the  name  of  the  Lord. 


348  THE   PHANTOM    LEADERS. 

There  sped  fiery  Tell  with  his  crossbow  and  dart, 
The  barb  glowing  crimson  from  Gessler's  proud  heart, 
And  close  by  his  side,  the  beloved  of  his  peers, 
Bold  Winklereid  rode  with  his  arms  full  of  spears; 
The  same  old  self-sacrifice  lighting  his  eye, 
And  "Make  way  for  Liberty!"  still  was  his  cry. 
There  was  Luther,  no  braver  e'er  rode  to  the  field, 
And  the  word  of  the  Lord  was  his  buckler  and  shield, 
While   the  weapon   he   grasped  was   the   same  he  had 

sped 

In  a  moment  of  anger  at  Lucifer's  head. 
There   was    Cromwell,    that    monarch   who   never   wore 

crown, 

With  his  Bible  and  sword  and  his  puritan  frown 
And  with  him  Charles-Albert,  the  Piedmontese  star, 
As  he  rode  ere  betrayed  on  the  field  of  Novarre. 
There  with  garments  still  red  from  that  last  fatal  day, 
The  ghost  of  Bozzaris  sped  fierce  for  the  fray; 
And  close  by  his  side,  with  an  eye  full  of  fire, 
Rode  Byron,  still  grasping  his  sword  and  his  lyre; 


THE   PHANTOM   LEADERS.  349 

And   the    war-kindling    numbers   which    fell    from   his 

tongue 

Like  the  notes  of  a  wild  battle-clarion  were  flung! 
And  just  in  advance  galloped  Kbrner  and  Burns 
Unsheathing  the  war-song  and  falchion  by  turns ! 
There,  gazing  and  listening,  my  spirit  entranced 
Leaped  for  joy  as  these  poets  for  Freedom  advanced; 
And   I   felt    the    warm    thought    through    my   bosom 

descend, 
That  the  bard  to  be  true  must  be  Liberty's  friend ! 

Then  came  a  dim  host  to  my  vision  unknown, 
Like  those  lights  which  astronomers  number  alone ; 
But   their  voice   still   made   clear  what  the   eye  could 

not  see, 
Crying,  "Down  with  the  tyrant  wherever  he  be  V 

But  why  swept  these  phantoms?     Whence  rode  they, 

and  where? 
What  occasion  had  summoned  these  allies  of  air? 


350  THE  PHANTOM  LEADERS. 

I  looked,  and  beheld  the  swift  spread  of  the  blaze 
Which  dazzled  the  stars  with  the  pulse  of  its  rays, 
As  if  through  the  darkness  the  lightning  had  played, 
And  in  midst  of  its  splendour  been  suddenly  stayed : 
There  I  read  the  great  words  spread  like  fiery  wings 
Where  "  weighed    and    found  wanting"  confronted  the 

kings ! 

And  this  army  of  spectres,  led  on  by  that  light, 
Like  a  cloud  on  a  hurricane  swept  through  the  night; 
And  this  was  their  cry  coming  down  on  the  gale, 
"  The  modern  Belshazzars  are  weighed  in  the  scale  V 


A  BIKTHDAY  THOUGHT   IN   ITALY. 

INSCRIBED   TO    MISS    S.   R.    B. 

As  once  the  trembling  Lombard  saw 
The  swift  barbarians'  line  of  spears 

Wind  down  the  Alps,  thus  here  in  awe 
I  watch  the  approaching  line  of  years. 

They  come,  the  Goth  and  vandal  bands, 
With  savage  tread  and  look  uncouth; 

With  spear  and  mace  and  murderous  brands, 
They  file  towards  the  plains  of  youth. 


352  A   BIRTHDAY    THOUGHT    IN    ITALY. 

Down  into  life's  Etrurian  vales, 

O'er  green  campagnas  broad  and  fair, 

They  sweep  like  bitter  Nor' land  gales, 
And  fright  the  calm  Italian  air. 

Their  barbarous  feet  know  no  restraint; 

They  vent  their  rage  before  our  eyes : 
The  shrines  that  held  our  dearest  saint 

A  ruined  heap  before  us  lies. 

The  temples  by  our  young  hearts  reared, 
Their  ruffian  malice  batters  down; 

Ambition's  altars,  unrevered, 

With  domes  of  Hope,  lie  overthrown. 

And  Friendship's  wayside  shrines  and  towers 
Too  oft  are  shattered  as  they  pass : 

Oft  Love,  a  statue  wreathed  with  flowers, 
Lies  at  their  feet  a  crumbled  mass. 


A  BIRTHDAY   THOUGHT   IN   ITALY.  353 

But  like  these  pure  Etruscan  skies, 

Unsullied  by  the  Goth's  control, 
One  fane  the  vandal  Time  defies, — 

The  dome  of  sunshine  in  the  soul ! 

And  thou,  fair  maid,  so  young  and  blest ! 

When  impious  years  shall  touch  thy  brow, 
Still  hold  this  sunshine  in  thy  breast, 

And  be  as  beautiful  as  now. 

Bagna  di  Lucca,  August  16,  1855. 


THE   STAYED  CUESE. 


WITH  face  half  hidden  in  ungathered  hair, 
Which  fell  like  sunshine  o'er  her  shoulders  bare, 
She  leaned  her  cheek  against  her  chamber  wall, 
As  if  to  note  when  some  far  voice  should  call. 
Her  weary  soul  stood  at  its  prison  bars, 
Fainting  to  hear  a  summons  from  the  stars : 
For  life  was  now  a  midnight  wilderness, 
Wherein  none  whispered  peace  to  her  distress, 
Save  One,  whose  voice,  of  love  and  pity  blended, 
Mid  her  loud  grief  was  not  yet  comprehended. 


THE    STAYED    CURSE.  355 

She  heard  alone  the  vulture  sailing  by, 
Led  by  the  foulest  birds  of  calumny; 
Felt  the  cold  serpents  crawl  against  her  feet, 
And  saw  the  gaunt  wolves  steal  to  her  retreat. 
The  wide  world  scowled  and  reddened  at  her  shame, 
Scorching  her  soul  with  horror;   and  her  name 
Was  struck,  as  with  the  violent  hand  of  rage, 
With  one  huge  blot  from  off  the  social  page. 
What  wonder  that  the  soul  thus  rudely  wrung 
Should  shape  such  words  as  half  appalled  the  tongue ! 
Words  like  fierce  arrows  for  the  faithless  breast 
Where  love  had  dreamed  with  too  confiding  rest; 
Shafts  which,  once  sped  at  random  from  the  lips, 
Some  friendly  fiend  must  guide  to  their  eclipse 
In  the  dark  heart,  where,  on  his  starless  throne, 
Deception  sat,  and,  smiling,  reigned  alone ! 

Thus  had  she  nursed  her  grief  for  many  days, 

And  thus  the  curse  was  struggling  from  her  breast, 


356  THE   STAYED   CURSE. 

When,  as  the  midnight's  solemn  sentry  bell 
Struck  vaguely  through  her  woe-engendered  haze, 
Announcing,  as  it  were,  the  mournful  guest, 

She  heard  the  sudden  close  of  wings  which  fell, 
Together  with  the  rustling  sound  of  sighs; 
And  presently,  uplifting  her  blank  eyes, 
Beheld  a  dull  and  ashen  form  of  woe 

Stand  looking  its  great  melancholy  there, 

As  if  long  years  of  under-world  despair 
Had  fanned  him  with  the  hottest  airs  that  blow 
Athwart  the  fierce  Sahara  fields  below! 
The  wings  were  leaden-hued  and  ruffled  all, 
As  if  long  beaten  'gainst  some  stormy  wall, 
Or  blown  contrary  by  belligerent  gusts, 
Then  trailed  for  ages  through  the  cinder  dusts 
On  plains  adjacent,  where  the  Stygian  pours, 
Hissing  forever  on  volcanic  shores ! 
She  looked,  and  on  her  lips  the  curse  was  stayed ! 
Thrice  all  the  vengeance  which  her  soul  had  planned 


THE    STAYED   CURSE.  357 

Burned  on  the  forehead  of  the  fallen  shade ! 

Her  purpose  dropt — as  from  the  archer's  hand 
Might  fall  the  arrow  if  he  saw  the  foe 
Struck  by  the  lightning's  swift  and  surer  blow ! 
The  curse  was  stayed — she  looked  to  heaven  and  sighed, 
" Forgive!  forgive!"  and  in  her  prayer  she  died! 


TWENTY-ONE. 

SOME    BIRTHDAY   LINES.  TO  J.  K.    T. 

FAR  within  the  orient  azure, 
In  the  purple  and  the  dew, 

Lies  the  flowery  land  of  pleasure 
Which  your  early  childhood  knew. 

In  its  dim  and  blue  existence 
There  it  lies,  a  dewy  space, 

In  the  bright  forbidden  distance 
Memory  only  can  retrace. 


TWENTY-ONE.  359 

After  this  the  fancy  wanders 

Over  varied  field  and  hill, 
Where  the  swelling  stream  meanders 

And  forgets  it  was  a  rill. 

Many  a  flower  with  odours  baneful 

Blooms  enticingly  thereby, 
To  whose  influence,  subtle,  painful, 

Later  years  shall  testify. 

In  Youth's  lovely,  dangerous  valley, 

E'en  the  best  directed  feet 
Oft  may  turn  to  stray  and  dally 

Mid  the  bowers  that  chill  and  cheat. 

But  anon  the  flowers  grow  scanter 

And  to  rougher  pastures  yield, 
Where  the  ploughman  and  the  planter 

Must  prepare  the  harvest-field. 


360  TWENTY-ONE. 

On  that  boundary  you  are  standing, 
'Twixt  the  blossoms  and  the  clods, 

To  begin  on  this  stern  landing 

The  great  strife  'gainst  fearful  odds. 

Where  you  strolled  the  sunny  meadows, 
You  must  brave  the  rocks  and  storms; 

Where  you  took  alarm  at  shadows, 
You  must  combat  solid  forms. 

Hills  of  snow  and  valleys  torrid 
Lie  beyond  the  boundary  vast, 

Where  fond  Life  with  anxious  forehead 
Reads  the  future  from  the  past. 

Huge  and  rough  as  thunder-smitten, 
Rise  the  barriers  of  the  gate, 

With  one  sentence  overwritten, — 
Simple  letters  full  of  fate. 


On  the  arch  through  which  you're  s 
There  those  two  forbidding  words 

Still  shall  flame,  as  over  Eden 
Blazed  the  red  exiling  swords. 

A  lost  realm  recovered  never — 
With  receding  speed  increased, 

Barred  and  branded  there  forever 
It  shall  glimmer  in  the  east. 

Youth  is  gone — a  vanished  glory — 
And,  with  stern  and  earnest  view, 

Manhood  needs  take  up  the  story, 
And  with  valour  bear  it  through. 


All  the  world  lies  wide  before  you, 
Where  to  choose  the  wrong  or  right; 

And  no  future  shall  restore  you 

What  you  seize  not  now  with  might. 


UNIVERSITY 

TWENTY-ONE. 


362  TWENTY-ONE. 

Let  each  act  be  the  sure  token 
Of  the  nobler  life  ahead : — 

Let  each  thought  in  truth  be  spoken, 
Though  the  utterance  strike  you  dead. 

Spurn  the  small  enticing  by-way 
Where  Temptation  sits  apart: 

Boldly  tread  the  open  highway 
Leading  to  the  golden  mart. 

Though  the  world  smile  on  you  blandly, 
Let  your  friends  be  choice  and  few : 

Choose  your  course,  pursue  it  grandly, 
And  achieve  what  you  pursue! 


BEATRICE. 

THOUGH  others  know  thee  by  a  fonder  name, 

I,  in  my  heart,  have  christened  thee  anew; 

And  though  thy  beauty,  in  its  native  hue, 
(Shedding  the  radiance  of  whence  it  came,) 
May  not  bequeath  to  language  its  high  claim,— 

Thy  smiling  presence,  like  an  angel's  wing, 
Fans  all  my  soul  of  poesy  to  flame, 

Till,  even  in  remembering,  I  must  sing. 
Such  led  the  grand  old  Tuscan's  longing  eyes 
Through  all  the  crystal  rounds  of  Paradise; 

And,  in  my  spirit's  farthest  journeying, 
Thy  smile  of  courage  leads  me  up  the  skies, 
Through  realms  of  song,  of  beauty,  and  of  bliss,- 
And  therefore  have  I  named  thee  Beatrice  ! 


HERO  AND   LEANDER. 


LONG  had  they  dwelt  within  one  breathless  cell, 
Two  souls,  by  some  mad  Sycorax  confined; 

But,  oh  !  the  unmeant  mercy  of  that  spell 

Which  turned  those  arms  to  marble,  while  entwined 

In  all  the  passionate  wo  of  tenderness, 

And  to  the  unknown  depths  of  earth  consigned, — 

These  radiant  forms  of  Beauty's  rare  excess, 

This  monument  of  Love's  own  loveliness ! 

Unchronicled,  the  centuries  rolled  on, 

And  groves  grew  ancient  on  the  prison-hill; 


HERO    AND   LEANDER.  365 

And  men  forgot  their  parent  tongues  anon, 

And  spoke  a  different  language,  as  a  rill 
Wearing  another  channel  from  its  source, 
Makes  a  new  song  accordant  with  its  course. 
But  suddenly  the  unexpectant  sun 

Beheld  the  swarthy  labourers  employ 
Upon  that  hill  their  rude  exhuming  art, 
Like  shadowy  hopes  at  some  dull,  ancient  heart, 

To  free  the  spirit  of  long  buried  joy. 
And  now  they  grappled  with  the  stubborn  rocks, 

Breaking  the  antique  seals  which  time  had  set 
Upon  the  earth's  deep  treasury,  that  locks 

Within  its  inmost  wards  such  marts  as  yet 
The  busy  masons  of  the  poet's  brain 

Have  builded  not.     Anon  the  toiling  ox 
Dragged  the  white  quarry  to  the  peopled  plain, 

And  Beauty's  soul  lay  sepulchred  unknown ! 
The  crowd  discerned  it  not,  till  there  came  one 
Who  heard  the  passionate  breathings  in  the  stone, 


366  HERO   AND   LEANDER. 

The  wordless  music  of  Love's  overflow; 
Who  heard  and  pitied,  and,  like  Prospero, 

Released  the  spirits  from  their  living  grave; 
And  when  the  breathless  world  beheld  them — lo ! 
The  soul  of  purity,  around,  above, 
Hung  in  the  tremulous  air  like  heaven's  own  dove; 

And  Fame  pronounced  the  name  of  him  who  gave 
A  marble  immortality  to  Love ! 


WINTER. 


Lo,  Winter  comes;  and  all  his  heralds  blow 

Their  gusty  trumpets,  and  his  tents  of  snow 

Usurp  the  fields  from  whence  sad  Autumn  flies, — 

Autumn,  that  finds  a  southern  clime  or  dies. 

The  streams  are  dumb  with  wo, — the  forest  grieves, 

Wailing  the  loss  of  all  its  summer  leaves: 

As  some  fond  Rachel  on  her  childless  breast 

Clasps  her  thin  hands  where  once  her  young  were  prest 

Then  flings  her  empty  arms  into  the  air, 

And  swells  the  gale  with  her  convulsed  despair! 


THE  BLIGHTED  FLOWER. 


WHY,  gentle  lady,  why  complain 
At  Scandal's  ever  flying  breath  ? 

'Gainst  Virtue's  cheek  it  blows  in  vain, 
And  thereon  breathes  itself  to  death. 

The  flower  beneath  the  passing  rain, 
Untouched  of  canker  or  of  blight, 

Bows  patiently,  to  rise  again 

With  sweeter  breath  and  fresher  light. 


THE   BLIGHTED   FLOWER.  369 

But  if  the  worm  be  hid  beneath, 

Or  haply  if  the  hot  simoom, 
Like  some  unlawful  lover's  breath, 

Hath  wooed  that  blossom  to  its  doom, — 

Then,  wo  is  me,  how  poor  and  frail 

Is  Beauty  in  her  fairest  form ! 
Her  brightness  cannot  stay  the  gale, 

Her  perfume  cannot  charm  the  storm. 

But  when  the  searching  wind  comes  by, 
And  shakes  each  blossom  by  the  stalk, 

The  tainted  leaves  asunder  fly, 

To  wither  down  the  garden  walk; — 

And  ere  one  heated  noon  has  sped, 

They  crisp  and  curl  and  pass  from  sight; 
Or  crumble  'neath  some  careless  tread 

As  if  they  never  had  been  bright. 

24 


THE  DEATH   OF   THE  VETEEAN. 

AN  INCIDENT  DURING  THE  MEXICAN  WAR. 

Enscrfbett 
TO  MA-TOR  ANDERSON  OF  THE  U.   S.  ARMY. 

SINCE  last  we  met,  a  throng  has  joined 

The  army  of  the  years, 
Trampling  to  dust  our  summer  flowers, 

Like  conquering  cavaliers. 
Since  last  we  met !  —  In  those  few  words 

There  is  a  mournful  beat, 
Like  throbbing  of  a  muffled  drum, 

Or  tread  of  funeral  feet. 
Since  then,  in  war's  high  festival, 

You've  waved  the  clashing  sword,  — 
While  I  have  been  a  saddened  guest 

At  Life's  promiscuous  board. 
Since  then,  the  young  with  mimic  arms 

Have  grown  to  armed  men  ; 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VETERAN.        371 

And  they  may  wear  the  veteran's  hair 

Before  we  meet  again  :  — 
Or  though,  ere  that,  our  mighty  Chief 

Should  grant  our  last  release, 
And  Death  conduct  us  to  the  camp, 

The  far  white  camp  of  Peace,  — 
Yet  here,  in  memory  of  those  days, 

Still  cherished,  though  long  spent, 
I  wake  the  martial  harp  before 

The  doorway  of  your  tent. 


FROM  hill  to  hill  the  "good  news"  ran 

As  swift  as  signal  fires; 
From  shore  to  sea,  from  gulf  to  land, 

And  flashed  along  the  wires : 

And  presently  from  wharf  to  wharf 

The  cannons  made  reply, 
And  in  the  city's  crowded  streets 

Was  heard  the  newsman's  cry. 


372  THE    DEATH    OF   THE    VETERAN. 

Bright  grew  the  matron's  face  when  I 

The  victory  began; 
Pale  waxed  the  young  wife's  cheek  when  she 

Heard  who  had  led  the  van; 

And  struggling  with  the  mists  of  age 
Which  veiled  his  eye  and  ear, 

The  grandsire  raised  his  palsied  hand   - 
And  feebly  strove  to  hear. 

And  when  I  read  the  story,  how 

Amid  the  flying  balls 
The  brave  lieutenant  bore  the  flag 

o 

And  scaled  the  shattered  walls; 

The  matron  and  the  young  wife  stood 

Too  terrified  for  tears, 
While  flamed  the  old  man's  cheek  with  red 

It  had  not  known  for  years. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VETERAN.         373 

But  when  I  read,  that  as  the  flag 

In  triumph  o'er  him  flew, 
How  twenty  bullets  hewed  his  breast 

And  cleaved  it  through  and  through, — 

The  mother  heaved  a  short,  deep  groan, 

And  sunk  into  her  chair; 
The  wife  fell  on  the  matron's  breast, 

And  swooned  in  her  despair. 

And  like  a  wounded,  dying  stag, 

Lodged  in  some  old  retreat, 
That  hears  the  still  approaching  hounds 

And  staggers  to  his  feet, — 

The  Veteran  struggled  from  his  chair 

And  raised  himself  upright, — 
His  eye  a  moment  kindled  with 

Its  long  forgotten  light  j — 


374:  THE   DEATH   OF   THE    VETERAN. 

So  firm  he  strode  across  the  room, 

So  martial  was  his  air, 
You  scarce  had  guessed  that  ninety  years 

Had  whitened  through  his  hair: — 

Then  from  the  wainscot  took  his  sword 
Where  it  had  hung  so  long, 

Memorial  of  many  a  field, 

The  weak  against  the  strong, — 

Of  fields  where  Justice  armed  the  few 

With  consecrated  brands, 
And  lodged  a  nation's  destiny 

In  their  devoted  hands  :— 

And,  gazing  on  the  blade,  he  said, 
"Thou  art  as  keen  and  bright 

As  when  in  those  old  trying  times 
We  battled  for  the  right; 


THE  DEATH  OP  THE  VETERAN.         375 

As  when  we  wintered  in  the  snow 

Within  the  frozen  gorge. 
And  from  our  starving  ranks  still  hurled 

Defiance  at  King  George : — 

As  when  beside  the  Brandywine 
We  fought  the  whole  day  through, 

Till  fields  had  changed  their  mantle 
And  the  river  changed  its  hue : — 

As  when  mid  grinding  gulfs  of  ice, 

Upon  a  Christmas  night, 
We  crossed  the  roaring  Delaware 

And  put  the  foe  to  flight! 

It  may  be  this  old  arm  of  mine 

Is  not  as  steady  now 
As  when  it  drew  against  Burgoyne, 

Or  cleaved  the  ranks  of  Howe; 


376         THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VETERAN. 

The  hand  may  tremble  on  the  hilt, 

The  heart  within  is  strong; 
And  God  who  strengthened  once  the  right 

Will  not  uphold  the  wrong. 

What !  have  they  ta'en  the  last  support 
That  propped  my  honoured  wall  ? 

Shall  the  name  become  tradition 
And  the  stately  roof-tree  fall  ? 

Was't  not  enough  that  he  who,  through 
The  woods  and  tangled  brakes, 

Spread  terror  o'er  the  savage,  from 
The  Gulf  unto  the  lakes; 

And  who  beside  the  bloody  Thames 
Left  death  where'er  he  sped, 

Till  the  fate  which  he  was  hurling  round 
Recoiled  upon  his  head? 


THE  DEATH  OP  THE  VETERAN.        377 


not  enough?     Speak  thou,  my  friend: 
Old  comrade,  thou  wert  there, 
Who  in  the  days  aforetime  drove 
The  Lion  to  his  lair; 

Twice  drove  him  from  our  shore,  and  chased 

The  red  wolf  to  his  den  ! 
Wast't  not  enough,  but  must  I  hear 

The  death-note  sound  again? 

And  has  our  banner  waved  abroad, 

The  martial  trumpet  pealed, 
And  foemen  bristled  on  the  plain, 

And  we  not  in  the  field? 

Old  sword,  in  this  our  winter, 

Shall  they  call  to  us  in  vain, 
Who  reaped  the  crimson  harvest 

With  a  Washington  and  Wayne? 


378        THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VETERAN. 

No !  come,  my  trusty  champion, 
Till  the  field  be  cleared  and  won, 

And  the  foe  be  left  in  prostrate  ranks 
To  bleach  beneath  the  sun! 

Ho !  now  is't  blood  which  stains  you, 
Or  the  shameful  blush  of  rust? 

Is  it  age  which  dims  my  vision, 
Or  the  flying  smoke  and  dust? 

Is't  the  beating  of  my  heart  I  hear, 
Or  calling  drum  at  hand? 

Or  grows  my  steps  unsteady^ 
Or  does  battle  shake  the  land? 

The  drums  grow  loud  and  louder, 
With  the  bugle's  dreadful  note: 

The  smoke-wreaths  thicken  round  me, 
And  the  dust  is  in  my  throat! 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VETERAN.        379 

Hark,  hark !     I  hear  the  order,  and 

It  bids  me  mount  the  wall; 
I  know  the  General's  voice ! — and  I 

Obey  him  though  I  fall ! 

Yes,  I  will  plant  my  country's  flag 

Upon  the  topmost  stone ; 
For  when  her  fate  demands  it, 

What  should  I  care  for  my  own  ? 

Now  how  the  loud  walls  totter, — 
Thicker, — darker  grows  the  smoke, — 

And  all  the  air  is  turned  to  dust, — 
I  stumble,  and  I  choke ! 

One  solid  thrust  to  plant  the  staff, — 

There  ! — let  the  eagle  soar !" 
He  cried,  and  reeling,  clasped  his  breast, — 

He  fell — and  breathed  no  more ! 


EVENING  TN  WINTER. 


ROBED  like  an  abbess 

The  snowy  earth  lies, 
While  the  red  sundown 

Fades  out  of  the  skies. 
Up  walks  the  evening 

Veiled  like  a  nun, 
Telling  her  starry  beads 

One  by  one. 

Where  like  the  billows 
The  shadowy  hills  lie, 


EVENING   IN    WINTER.  381 

Like  a  mast  the  great  pine  swings 

Against  the  bright  sky. 
Down  in  the  valley 

The  distant  lights  quiver, 
Gilding  the  hard-frozen 

Face  of  the  river. 

When  o'er  the  hilltops 

The  moon  pours  her  ray, 
Like  shadows  the  skaters 

Skirr  wildly  away; 
Whirling  and  gliding, 

Like  summer-clouds  fleet, 
They  flash  the  white  lightning 

From  glittering  feet. 

The  icicles  hang 

On  the  front  of  the  falls, 
Like  mute  horns  of  silver 

On  shadowy  walls; 


382  EVENING   IN    WINTER. 

Horns  that  the  wild  huntsman 
Spring  shall  awake, 

Down  flinging  the  loud  blast 
Toward  river  and  lake! 


A   PLEA  FOR  THE  HOMELESS. 


A  CRY  goes  up  amidst  a  prosperous  nation, 
And  Hunger  begs  within  a  plenteous  land ! 

Have  ye  not  heard  the  voice  of  Desolation? 

Have  ye  not  seen  the  stretched  and  famished  hand? 

Have  ye  not  felt  the  solemn  obligation 

To  rise,  and  straightway  answer  the  demand? 

O  happy  mothers,  in  your  homes  protected, 
Whose  little  ones  may  never  ask  for  alms, 

That  voice  is  Childhood's !  starving  and  neglected, 
Pale  Infancy  implores  with  empty  palms, — 

The  sad  soul  sitting  in  its  eyes  dejected, 
No  voice  elates,  no  smile  of  pity  calms. 


384  A  PLEA  FOR   THE   HOMELESS. 

Let  those  dear  looks,  so  full  of  April  splendour, 
Those  dimpled  hands  you  clasp  within  your  own, 

That  voice  you  love  so,  plead  with  accents  tender, 
For  those  who  weep  unguarded  and  alone, 

For  those  dull  eyes,  those  hands  so  weak  and  slender, 
Those  pallid  lips,  whose  mirth  is  but  a  moan! 

Sweet  plants  there  are  which  bloom '  in  sultry  places, 
By  rude  feet  trampled  in  their  early  hour, 

Which,  when  transplanted,  are  so  full  of  graces, 
They  lend  a  charm  to  Flora's  fairest  bower; 

0  ye  who  pass,  look  down  into  their  faces, 
Displace  the  dust,  and  recognise  the  flower! 

Lo,  the  example  for  our  guidance  given, — 
In  sacred  light  our  duty  stands  revealed ! 

For  ONE  there  was,  who,  in  His  great  love,  even 
Noted  the  smallest  lilies  of  the  field, — 

And  blessing  children,  said,  "Of  such  is  heaven!" 
His  " suffer  them  to  come,"  stands  unrepealedl 


A  PLEA  FOR  THE    HOMELESS.  385 

0  ye  whose  hearts,  amid  the  worldly  noises, 
No  cares  can  harden,  and  no  self  benumb, 

Whose  ears  are  open  to  these  orphan  voices, 
Whose  answering  soul  no  avarice  makes  dumb, 

The  great  RECORDER  o'er  your  names  rejoices, 
For  ye  have  truly  suffered  them  to  come ! 

25 


THE  CELESTIAL  AKMY. 


I  STOOD  by  the  open  casement 
And  looked  upon  the  night, 

And  saw  the  westward-going  stars 
Pass  slowly  out  of  sight. 

Slowly  the  bright  procession 
Went  down  the  gleaming  arch, 

And  my  soul  discerned  the  music 
Of  their  long  triumphal  march; 


THE   CELESTIAL  ARMY.  387 

Till  the  great  celestial  army, 

Stretching  far  beyond  the  poles, 
Became  the  eternal  symbol 

Of  the  mighty  march  of  souls. 

Onward,  forever  onward, 

Red  Mars  led  down  his  clan; 
And  the  Moon,  like  a  mailed  maiden, 

Was  riding  in  the  van. 

And  some  were  bright  in  beauty, 

And  some  were  faint  and  small, 
But  these  might  be  in  their  great  height 

The  noblest  of  them  all. 

Downward,  forever  downward, 

Behind  Earth's  dusky  shore 
They  passed  into  the  unknown  night, 

They  passed,  and  were  no  more. 


388  THE   CELESTIAL   ARMY. 

No  more  !     Oh,  say  not  so  ! 

And  downward  is  not  just; 
For  the  sight  is  weak  and  the  sense  is  dim 

That  looks  through  heated  dust. 

The  stars  and  the  mailed  moon, 
Though  they  seem  to  fall  and  die, 

Still  sweep  with  their  embattled  lines 
An  endless  reach  of  sky. 

And  though  the  hills  of  Death 

May  hide  the  bright  array, 
The  marshalled  brotherhood  of  souls 

Still  keeps  its  upward  way. 

Upward,  forever  upward, 

I  see  their  march  sublime, 
And  hear  the  glorious  music 

Of  the  conquerors  of  Time. 


THE   CELESTIAL   ARMY.  389 

And  long  let  me  remember; 

That  the  palest,  fainting  one 
May  to  diviner  vision  be 

A  bright  and  blazing  sun. 


irs  fr0m 


TO 


To  you,  -who,  in  the  broad  commercial  plain, 
Sittest  "where  calm  Passaic  seeks  the  main, 
I  bring  these  mountain  airs,  —  and  wake  once  more 
The  minstrel  harp  you  kindly  heard  of  yore  : 
Beside  your  fire  the  heaven-ward  hill  -would  rear. 
And  give  the  pleasures  of  the  mountaineer  ; 
Would  -wake  the  music  of  the  marvellous  pass, 
And  loose  the  avalanche's  monster  mass  ; 
Kecall,  had  I  such  mastery  o'er  tho  strings, 
From  St.  Bernard  the  tempest's  -wildest  wings  ! 
Assured  the  dreariest  scene  -would  soon  depart 
Before  your  glowing  hearth  and  genial  heart  1 


THE  LISTENERS. 


UNDER  the  vernal  tents  of  shadowy  trees, — 
A  druid  depth  of  oaken  solitude, 
The  home  of  wild  flowers  and  the  haunt  of  bees, 
The  native  vale  of  many  a  minstrel  brood, — 
There  ran  a  stream  in  its  bewildering  mood 
Of  song  and  silence  and  low  whispering  trance; 
And  streamlike  paths  went  winding  through  the  wood 
From  rock  to  glen,  the  temples  of  Romance, 
And  there   were  lawns  where   Mirth  might  lead  her 
wreathed  dance. 


396  AIRS   FROM   ALPLAND. 

Upon  a  knoll  o'ergrown  with  mosses  sweet, 
While  dropt  the  sun  adown  the  afternoon, 
A  group  of  maidens  made  their  merry  seat, — 
June  all  around  and  in  their  hearts  was  June; 
And  on  their  flowery  lips  the  mellow  tune 
Of  early  summer;   and  with  fingers  fair 
Shaking  the  winged  spoilers  in  their  swoon 
From  honey-bells  of  blossoms  bright  and  rare, 
They  wove   their   woodland  wreaths   and   decked   each 
other's  hair. 

But  when  they  saw  me  pass  between  the  trees, 
Slow  making  toward  the  streamlet's  yellow  sands, 
"Come  hither,  thou  new-comer  from  the  seas, 
And  sing  to  us  fresh  songs  of  foreign  lands!" 
They  cried,  and  placed  a  harp  into  my  hands : 
And  straightway  I  went  stumbling  o'er  the  strings, 
As  best  I  could,  to  answer  their  demands, — 
Like  some  poor  bird  that  with  his  trembling  wings 
Beats  at  the  caging  wires,  and  to  his  mistress  sings. 


THE   FAIR   PILGRIM.  397 


THE  FAIE  PILGRIM. 


:<  Upon  her  little  palfrey  white 
Y«  maiden  sitteth  eke  upright,— 
Her  hair  is  black  as  y«  midnight, 

Her  eyes  also. 

Her  cheeks  have  snary  dimples  in, 
And  Cupid's  thumb  hath  touched  her  chin, 
And  silken  soft  her  lily  skin,— 
Her  lips  like  crimson  rose-leaves  bin 

About  her  teeth  of  snow." 


TIME  was  when,  with  the  unrestraint 
Of  an  enamoured  soul  and  hand, — 

In  lieu  of  these  cold  words,  that  faint 
And  waver  like  a  willow  wand 

Before  the  vision  I  would  paint, — 
I  would  have  seized  the  ready  brush, 

And,  with  the  limner's  clearer  art, 


398  AIRS   FROM    ALPLAND. 

Poured  out  the  softer  hues  that  flush 
And  flow  within  the  painter's  heart; 

Have  shown  you  where  she  passed  or  stood, 
Between  the  Alpine  light  and  shade; 

Her  stately  form,  her  air  subdued, 

Her  dark  eye  mellowing  to  the  mood 
That  round  her  inmost  spirit  played. 

I  would  have  wrought  the  daylight  through 
To  give  what  yet  before  me  beams, 

And  ceased  at  eve  but  to  renew 
The  impassioned  labour  in  my  dreams. 

But  this  is  past:  life  takes  and  gives, 
And  o'er  the  dust  of  hopes  long  gone 

The  vision  brightens  as  it  lives, 
And  mocks  the  hand  that  would  have  drawn. 

Along  those  windings  high  and  vast, 

Through  frequent  sun  and  shade  she  stole, 

And  all  the  Alpine  splendour  passed 
Into  the  chambers  of  her  soul ; 


THE   PAIR   PILGRIM.  399 

For  she  was  of  that  better  clay 

Which  treads  not  oft  this  earthly  stage: 
Such  charmed  spirits  lose  their  way 

But  once  or  twice  into  an  age. 
Her  voice  was  one  that  thrills  and  clings 

Forever  in  the  hearer's  bosom,— 
As  when  a  bee  with  flashing  wings 

Cleaves  to  the  centre  of  a  blossom, — 
And  with  the  mule-bells'  measured  chime 
Her  fancies  rung  themselves  to  rhyme. 


400  AIRS   FROM   ALPLAND. 


SONG   ON    ST.  BERNARD. 

OH,  it  is  a  pleasure  rare 

Ever  to  be  climbing  so, 
Winding  upward  through  the  air, 

Till  the  cloud  is  left  below! 
Upward  and  forever  round 

On  the  stairway  of  the  stream, 
With  the  motion  and  the  sound 

Of  processions  in  a  dream : 
While  the  world  below  all  this 
Lies  a  fathomless  abyss. 

Freedom  singeth  ever  here, 

Where  her  sandals  print  the  snow, 


SONG    ON    ST.    BERNARD.  401 

And  to  her  the  pines  are  dear, 

Freely  rocking  to  and  fro; 
Swinging  oft  like  stately  ships, 

Where  the  billowy  tempests  sport; 
Or,  as  when  the  anchor  slips 

Down  the  dreamy  wave  in  port, 
Standing  silent  as  they  list 
Where  the  zephyrs  furl  the  mist. 

Here  the  well-springs  drop  their  pearls, 

All  to  Freedom's  music  strung; 
And  the  brooks,  like  mountain  girls, 

Sing  the  songs  of  Freedom's  tongue. 
And  the  great  hills,  stern  and  staunch, 

Guard  her  valleys  and  her  lakes, 
And  the  rolling  avalanche 

Blocks  the  path  the  invader  makes, 
While  her  eagle,  like  a  flag, 

Floats  in  triumph  o'er  the  crag ! 
26 


402  AIRS   FROM    ALPLAND. 


I   HAVE  LOOKED   ON  A   FACE. 

I  HAVE  looked  on  a  face  that  has  looted  in  my  heart, 
As  deep  as  the  moon  ever  fathoms  a  wave; 

As  uncomprehended  it  came  to  depart, 

While  a  sense  of  its  glory  was  all  that  it  gave. 

Where  slie  passed  the  Alp  blossoms   grew  pallid   and 
shrank, 

As  a  taper  in  sunlight  sinks  faint  and  aghast; 
And  now  o'er  her  path  swims  a  terrible  blank, 

A  gulf  in  the  air  where  her  beauty  hath  passed. 


I    HAVE    LOOKED    ON    A    FACE.  403 

But  her  light  in  my  heart,  which  no  time  can  eclipse, 
Seems  to  brighten  and  smile  in  the  joy  it  confers; 

And  a  voice  which  is  shed  from  aerial  lips 

Breathes  a  music  I  know  which  can  only  be  hers! 


404  AIRS   FROM   ALPIAND. 


THE  CHAMOIS  HUNTEE. 


THERE! — see  you  not  upon  the  face 
Of  yonder  far  and  dizzy  height 

A  something  with  slow-moving  pace, 
Now  faintly  seen,  now  lost  to  sight? 

And  now  again,  with  downward  spring, 

As  if  supported  by  a  wing, 

It  drops,  then  scarcely  seems  to  crawl 

Along  the  smooth  and  shining  wall. 

Is  it  a  bird  ?   or  beast  whose  lair 

Is  hid  within  some  cavern  there? 


THE   CHAMOIS    HUNTER.  405 

Or  some  adventurer  who  hath  striven 
To  scale  that  Babel  wall  to  heaven? 
In  sooth,  methinks,  there  never  yawned 
A  passage  to  the  world  beyond 
Of  shorter  access  than  now  lies 
Around  that  climber  in  the  skies." 

Then  spake  the  guide: — 

"  Unless  I  err, 
There  is  but  one  adventurer 

From  Basle  unto  Geneva's  lake, 
From  Neufchatel  to  Spliigen  pass, 

Of  all  who  freely  scale  the  brow 
Of  ice  that  crowns  the  Mer-de-glace, 

Or  climbs  the  slippery  Rosenlau, 

Who  dares  that  dreadful  path  to  take. 
Not  him  who  sprang  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
And  passed  us  on  the  Devil's  Bridge, 
And  told  you  all  that  perilous  tale 
Which  made  your  rosy  cheeks  grow  pale. 


406  AIRS   FROM   ALPLAND. 

Nor  him  who  in  the  Grimsel  sang 
Among  his  fellows  of  the  chase, 
Until  the  laughing  rafters  rang 

And  scared  all  slumber  from  the  place; 
Or,  if  the  weary  traveller  slept, 
Through  all  his  dream  the  chamois  swept 
There  never  yet  was  hunter  born 
So  fierce  of  soul,  so  lithe  of  limb, 
So  fearless  on  the  mountain's  rim, 
As  Herman  of  the  Wetterhorn. 
He  robbed  the  Jungfrau  of  her  fame, 
And  put  the  chamois'  flight  to  shame; 
He  takes  the  wild  crag  by  the  brow, 
As  boatman  might  his  shallop-prow. 
The  avalance  he  loves  to  dare, 
To  shout  amid  the  wild  uproar 

Until  the  thundering  vale  is  full, — 
Then  stands  upon  the  ruins  there, 
Like  some  brave  Spanish  matadore 
With  foot  upon  the  fallen  bulll 


THE   CHAMOIS    HUNTER.  407 

"If  all  goes  well  as  it  should  go, 

Two  toiling  hours  of  steady  pace 
Must  bring  us  to  the  ribs  of  snow 

That  lie  around  the  broken  base 
Of  that  far  height,  and  one  hour  more 
Should  find  us  at  the  convent  door; 
And  there  perchance  will  Herman  be, 

His  shoulder  laden  with  chamois, 
His  heart  a  mountain  well  of  glee, 

His  voice  an  alpine  gust  of  joy." 

Two  hours  they  toiled  with  steady  pace, 
And  they  had  gained  that  rocky  base. 
But  when  the  winding  line  had  earned 
A  jutting  crag  and  partly  turned, 
A  sharp  and  sudden  rifle-crack 

Broke  through  the  thin  and  icy  air, 

Jarring  the  frozen  silence  there, 

And  rattled  down  the  steep  hill-side; 


408  AIRS   FROM   ALPLAND. 

But  ere  the  snow-cliffs  gave  it  back, 
A  wounded  chamois  in  their  track 

Rolled  bleeding,  and  there  died ! 
The  startled  rider  checked  his  rein; 

And  the  pedestrian  stayed  his  pace: 
With  looks  of  wonder  or  of  pain 

Each  stared  into  the  other's  face. 
And  when  the  maid's  first  shock  of  fear 

In  gentle  tremblings  passed  away, 
Her  dark  eye  glistening  with  a  tear, 

She  gazed  where  the  dead  creature  lay. 

The  graceful  head, — the  slender  horns, — 

The  eyes  which  Death  seemed  scarce  to  dull, 
So  wildly  sad, — so  beautiful ! 
The  polished  hoofs, — the  shining  form,— 
The  limbs  that  had  outsped  the  storm, 

Thrilled  her  with  wonder  and  with  wo, 
Until  she  would  have  given  a  part 
Of  the  dear  life-blood  of  her  heart 


THE    CHAMOIS    HUNTER.  409 

To  wake  once  more  that  gentle  eye 
And  bid  the  eagle's  rival  fly 
Unto  his  native  crags  of  snow. 

Before  their  wonder  all  had  passed 
A  voice  came  down  the  rising  blast, — 
A  voice  that  gayly  soared  and  fell 
Along  the  wild  winds'  wandering  swell; 
A  carol  like  a  flying  bird's — 

Faint  were  the  notes  at  first,  and  then 
The  sounds  ran  eddying  into  words 

That  sang  of  mirth  and  Meyringen. 


410  AIRS    FROM    ALPLAND. 


SONG  OF  THE  CHAMOIS  HUNTER. 


OH,  brave  may  be  those  bands,  perchance, 

Who  ride  where  tropic  deserts  glow, — 
Who  bring  with  lasso  and  with  lance 

The  tiger  to  their  saddle's  prow : — 
But  I  would  climb  the  snowy  track 

Alone,  as  I  have  ever  been, 
And  with  a  chamois  on  my  back, 

Descend  to  merry  Meyringen. 

Oh,  they  may  sing  of  eyes  of  jet, 

That  melt  in  passion's  dreamy  glance, — 


SONG   OF   THE   CHAMOIS   HUNTER.  411 

Of  forms  that  to  the  castanet 

Sway  through  the  languor  of  the  dance  : — 
But  let  me  clasp  some  blue-eyed  girl, 

Whose  arms  impulsive  clasp  again; 
And  through  a  storm  of  music  whirl 

The  dizzy  waltz  at  Meyringen. 

And  they  may  sing,  as  oft  they  will, 

Of  joy  beneath  the  southern  vine, 
And  in  luxurious  banquets  fill 

Their  goblets  with  the  orient  wine: — 
But  when  the  Alpland  winter  rolls 

His  tempests  over  hill  and  glen, 
Let  me  sit  mid  the  steaming  bowls 

That  cheer  the  nights  at  Meyringen. 

Brave  men  are  there  with  hands  adroit 
At  every  game  our  land  deems  good, — 

To  wrestle,  or  to  swing  the  quoit, 
Or  drain  the  bowl  of  brotherhood : — 


412  AIRS   FROM   ALPLAND. 

And  when  the  last  wild  chase  is  through, 
We'll  sit  together,  gray-haired  men, 

And,  with  the  gay  Lisette  to  brew, 
Once  more  be  young  in  Meyringen. 


THE   WARNING.  413 


THE   WAENING. 


THE  song  was  done;  they  raised  their  eyes, 
And  saw  between  them  and  the  skies 
A  figure  standing  dark  and  mute 

That  on  a  gleaming  rifle  leant, 
And  all  his  form  from  head  to  foot 

Was  painted  on  the  firmament. 
So  still  he  stood,  the  quickest  eye 
In  its  first  gazing  toward  the  sky 
Glanced  twice,  before  discerning  if 
The  dusky  shape  were  man  or  cliff. 


414  AIRS    FROM   ALPLAND. 

At  length,  a  voice — so  high  and  loud 
It  seemed  descending  from  the  cloud — 
Swept  down  along  the  swelling  gale, 
And  made  the  stoutest  hearer  quail. 
"  I  charge  ye,  on !     I  charge  ye,  speed ! 
And  every  gust  proclaims  the  need. 
By  all  the  surest  mountain  signs, 
By  all  the  wailing  of  the  winds, — 
And  by  the  sobbing  of  the  pines, — 
And  by  that  avalanche  which  now 
Gives  warning  through  the  vale  below, — 
By  yonder  rising  cloud,  whose  wrath 
Makes  desperate  the  safest  path, 
I  know  the  blast  must  soon  perform 
The  bidding  of  the  monarch  storm." 


STOEM   ON    ST.  BERNARD.  415 


STORM  ON   ST.  BERNARD. 


OH,  Heaven,  it  is  a  fearful  thing 
Beneath  the  tempest's  beating  wing 
To  struggle,  like  a  stricken  hare 
When  swoops  the  monarch  bird  of  air; 
To  breast  the  loud  winds'  fitful  spasms, 
To  brave  the  cloud  and  shun  the  chasms, 
Tossed  like  a  fretted  shallop-sail 
Between  the  ocean  and  the  gale. 

Along  the  valley,  loud  and  fleet, 
The  rising  tempest  leapt  and  roared, 


416  AIRS   FROM   ALPLAND. 

And  scaled  the  Alp,  till  from  his  seat 

The  throned  Eternity  of  Snow 
His  frequent  avalanches  poured 

In  thunder  to  the  storm  below. 

The  laden  tempest  wildly  broke 

O'er  roaring  chasms  and  rattling  cliffs, 
And  on  the  pathway  piled  the  drifts; 
And  every  gust  was  like  a  wolf, — 

And  there  was  one  at  every  cloak, — 

That,  snarling,  dragged  toward  the  gulf. 

The  staggering  mule  scarce  kept  his  pace, 
With  ears  thrown  back  and  shoulders  bowed; 

The  surest  guide  could  barely  trace 
The  difference  'twixt  earth  and  cloud; 

And  every  form,  from  foot  to  face, 
Was  in  a  winding-sheet  of  snow : 
The  wind,  'twas  like  the  voice  of  wo 

That  howled  above  their  burial-place! 


STORM   ON    ST.  BERNARD.  417 

And  now,  to  crown  their  fears,  a  roar 
Like  ocean  battling  with  the  shore, 
Or  like  that  sound  which  night  and  day 
Breaks  through  Niagara's  veil  of  spray, 
From  some  great  height  within  the  cloud, 

To  some  immeasured  valley  driven, 
Swept  down,  and  with  a  voice  so  loud 

It  seemed  as  it  would  shatter  heaven  I 
The  bravest  quailed;  it  swept  so  near, 

It  made  the  ruddiest  cheek  to  blanch, 
While  look  replied  to  look  in  fear, 

"The  avalanche!     The  avalanche!" 
It  forced  the  foremost  to  recoil, 

Before  its  sideward  billows  thrown, — 
Who  cried,  "0  God!     Here  ends  our  toil! 

The  path  is  overs  wept  and  gone  I" 

The  night  came  down.     The  ghostly  dark, 
Made  ghostlier  by  its  sheet  of  snow, 

Wailed  round  them  its  tempestuous  wo, 
27 


418  AIRS   FROM   ALPLAND. 

Like  Death's  announcing  courier  !     "  Hark  ! 
There,  heard  you  not  the  alp-hound's  bark? 
And  there  again  !   and  there  !     Ah,  no, 
;Tis  but  the  blast  that  mocks  us  so  1" 

Then  through  the  thick  and  blackening  mist 
Death  glared  on  them,  and  breathed  so  near, 

Some  felt  his  breath  grow  almost  warm, 
The  while  he  whispered  in  their  ear 

Of  sle.ep  that  should  out-dream  the  storm. 
Then  lower  drooped  their  lids, — when,  "Listl 
Now,  heard  you  not  the  storm-bell  ring? 

And  there  again,  and  twice  and  thrice ! 
Ah,  no,  'tis  but  the  thundering 

Of  tempests  on  a  crag  of  ice !" 

Death  smiled  on  them,  and  it  seemed  good 

On  such  a  mellow  bed  to  lie : 

The  storm  was  like  a  lullaby, 
And  drowsy  pleasure  soothed  their  blood. 


STORM    ON    ST.  BERNARD.  419 

But  still  the  sturdy,  practised  guide 

His  unremitting  labour  plied; 

Now  this  one  shook  until  he  woke, 

And  closer  wrapt  the  other's  cloak, — 

Still  shouting  with  his  utmost  breath, 

To  startle  back  the  hand  of  Death, 

Brave  words  of  cheer!  -"But,  hark  again, — 

Between  the  blasts  the  sound  is  plain; 

The  storm,  inhaling,  lulls, — and  hark ! 

It  is — it  is  !   the  alp-dog's  bark  ! 

And  on  the  tempest's  passing  swell — 

The  voice  of  cheer  so  long  debarred — 
There  swings  the  Convent's  guiding-bell, 

The  sacred  bell  of  Saint  Bernard!" 

Then  how  they  gained,  though  chilled  and  faint, 

The  Convent's  hospitable  door, 
And  breathed  their  blessing  on  the  saint 

Who  guards  the  traveller  as  of  yore, — 


420  AIRS   FROM   ALPLAND. 

Were  long  to  tell : — And  then  the  night 
And  unhoused  winter  of  the  height, 

Were  rude  for  audience  such  as  mine; 
The  harp,  too,  wakes  to  more  delight, 
The  fingers  take  a  freer  flight, 

When  warmed  between  the  fire  and  wine. 
The  storm  around  the  fount  of  song 
Has  blown  its  blast  so  chill  and  long, 
What  marvel  if  it  freeze  or  fail, 
Or  that  its  spray  returns  in  hail! 
Or,  rather,  round  my  muse's  wings 
The  encumbering  snow,  though  melting,  clings 
So  thickly,  she  can  scarce  do  more 
Than  flounder  where  she  most  would  soar. 

The  hand  benumbed,  reviving,  stings, 
And  with  thick  touches  only  brings 

The  harp-tones  out  by  fits  and  spells, — 
You  needs  must  note  how  all  the  strings 

Together  jar  like  icicles ! 


STORM    ON   ST.  BERNARD,  421 

Then  heap  the  hearth  and  spread  the  board, 
And  let  the  glowing  flasks  be  poured, 
While  I  beside  the  roaring  fire 
Melt  out  the  music  of  my  lyre. 


AIRS   FROM    ALPLAND. 


FANCIES  IN   THE  FIRELIGHT, 

IN  THE  CONVENT  OF  ST.  BERNARD. 

OH,  it  is  a  joy  to  gaze 
Where  the  great  logs  lie  ablaze; 
Thus  to  list  the  garrulous  flame 
Muttering  like  some  ancient  dame; 
And  to  hear  the  sap  recount 
Stories  of  its  native  mount, 
Telling  of  the  summer  weather, 
When  the  trees  swayed  all  together, — 


FANCIES   IN    THE    FIRELIGHT.  423 

How  the  little  birds  would  launch 
Arrowy  songs  from  branch  to  branch, 
Till  the  leaves  with  pleasure  glistened, 
And  each  great  bough  hung  and  listened 
To  the  song  of  thrush  and  linnet, 
When  securely  lodged  within  it, 
With  all  pleasant  sounds  that  dally 
Round  the  hill  and  in  the  valley; 
Till  each  log  and  branch  and  splinter 
On  the  ancient  hearth  of  Winter 
Can  do  naught  but  tell  the  story 
Of  its  transient  summer  glory. 

Oh,  there's  tranquil  joy  in  gazing 
Where  these  great  logs  lie  ablazing, 
While  the  wizard  flame  is  sparkling, 
The  memorial  shadows  darkling 
Swim  the  wall  in  strange  mutation, 
Till  the  marvelling  contemplation 


424  AIRS   FROM   ALPLAND. 

Feeds  its  wonder  to  repletion 
With  each  firelight  apparition. 

There  the  ashen  Alp  appears, 
And  its  glowing  head  uprears, 
Like  a  warrior  grim  and  bold, 
With  a  helmet  on  of  gold; 
And  a  music  goes  and  conies 
Like  the  sound  of  distant  drums. 

O'er  a  line  of  serried  lances 
How  the  blazing  banner  dances, 
While  red  pennons  rise  and  fall 
Over  ancient  Hannibal. 

Lo,  beneath  a  moon  of  fire, 

Where  the  meteor  sparks  stream  by  her, 

There  I  see  the  brotherhood 

Which  on  sacred  Griitli  stood, 


FANCIES   IN   THE    FIRELIGHT.  425 

Pledging  with  crossed  hands  to  stand 
The  defenders  of  the  land. 

And  in  that  red  ember  fell 
Gessler,  with  the  dart  of  Tell! 

• 
Still  they  fall  away,  and,  lo ! 

Other  phantoms  come  and  go, 
Other  banners  wing  the  air, — 
And  the  countless  bayonets  glare, 
While  around  the  steep  way  stir 
Armies  of  the  conqueror; 
And  the  slow  mule  toiling  on 
Bears  the  world's  Napoleon. 

Now  the  transient  flame  that  flashes 
'Twixt  the  great  logs  and  the  ashes, 
Sends  a  voice  out  from  the  middle 
That  my  soul  cannot  unriddle, — 


426  AIRS   FROM    ALPLAND. 

Till  the  fire  above  and  under 
Gnaws  the  stoutest  wood  asunder, 
And  the  brands,  in  ruin  blended, 
Smoking,  lie  uncoinprehended, — 
While  the  dying  embers  blanch, 
And  the  muffled  avalanche, 
Noiseless  as  the  years  descend, 
Sweeps  them  to  an  ashen  end. 
Thus  at  last  the  great  shall  be, 

And  the  slave  shall  lie  with  them,- 
Pii  Jesu  Domine 

Dona  eis  requiem  ! 


END    OF    VOL.    I. 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

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